The Chemistry is Incredibly Simple and Very Destructive
by starrysummernights
Summary: Sherlock is too busy to continue to go out and procure willing sex partners for himself so he comes up with the perfect solution: John. After all, he knows John is attracted to him and they are already living together. Why not make their friendship one with benefits? What could go wrong?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello everyone! The idea for this fic came from an interview quote from the lovely Benedict Cumberbatch, talking about Sherlock's sexuality : **

**"Well, I see no reason at all why he shouldn't be sexual. Everyone recruited him to their perspective, their interpretation. I've had asexuals come up to me and thank me for representing asexuals. I don't know how that came about. I mean, the man's too busy to have sex. That's really what it is."**

**So...my mind twisted the quote and came up with this fic. I think there may be something wrong with me... **

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

"_Hi_."

The woman looked up at the tall, dark haired man standing beside her. He was grinning at her, his face open and inviting, eyes twinkling, and she found herself smiling back. There were usually all sorts of creeps in a pub like this but this man seemed…friendly, so open and warm that she instantly felt herself relax.

"Hello."

"I'm Michael. I come here all the time but I don't remember seeing you before?"

The man had a posh accent, his voice pitched low and every word felt as if it were intimate, and made her stomach jerk pleasantly. She glanced at him up and down- designer suit, slender body but a bit broad shouldered, pale skin, mop of unruly brown curls, those cheekbones!, cupid's bow lip- definitely sexy. She bit her lip and the man's smile widened.

"I'm Amelia." She took the hand he offered her and widened her smile, allowing her eyes to smolder, letting him know that she was definitely, _definitely_ interested. His eyes returned the heat and he smiled back at her, looking so utterly appealing.

"Well, I usually don't come here but I'm meeting a…a friend." Amelia quickly changed it from her husband, glad she had removed her wedding ring earlier that day. There was no reason to discourage the tall, gorgeous man in front of her.

"Would this _friend_ be arriving shortly?" the man leaned closer to her, his lips close to her ear, allowing his breath to ghost along her neck, raising goose bumps. "Or would I have time to buy you a drink?"

* * *

It had been easy to deduce what she wanted. She had a husband, older than her, rich, and their relationship had been in decline for some time. He had gained 30 pounds since the beginning of their marriage and their sex life had declined subsequently. It was nothing exciting and she was not receiving the attention she craved. She was young and liked having casual sex, the thrill of potentially being caught, the excitement of the chase, feeling powerful and wanted and lusted after by young men. She also loved the vindictive feeling it gave her to cheat on her husband, the knowledge that she was fucking other people while he was denied. The depravities of humanity knew no bounds.

It was the work of less than an hour before Sherlock had the woman- he had forgotten her name- pressed against the wall of a darkened hallway, her dress pushed up around her waist, her legs wrapped around his hips, and was pushing his latex covered erection into her. He blocked out the obscene sounds she was making- knowing if he were forced to listen it would only put him off- and began to thrust. He didn't imagine her to be someone else, didn't fantasize, and even blocked out what she looked like. Instead, Sherlock closed his eyes and focused on the pleasure, the sensation of gliding in and out of her body, losing himself in thrusting forward, feeling himself growing harder, relishing the tingling sensation in his testicles as he neared his release.

When he came, his mind blanked deliciously for long seconds. Sherlock rode out the waves of his orgasm, wringing every last pleasurable sensation from his body that it had to give.

Slowly, he came back into his own mind, his sometimes chaotic, frenzied mind, which was relatively quiet at the moment. He opened his eyes and looked at the woman. Eyes closed, mouth open, red lips parted provocatively- she had orgasmed then. Sherlock really did not care one way or the other as that had not been his goal. He pulled out quickly and dropped her legs to the floor, pulling off the condom and disposing of it. He was straightening his clothes as the woman slumped against the wall, smiling lazily.

"We should do this again sometime." She said throatily, grabbing Sherlock's arm in what was supposed to be an affectionate and playful way. Sherlock shook her off, frowning.

Amelia watched as the man's entire demeanor changed. Gone was the easy smile and warm eyes, friendly and relaxed stance. It was replaced with cold, cruel eyes and a mouth that was pressed into a forbidding line. His body screamed "don't touch me, slut" with emphasis on the word "slut." She felt as if she had been nothing more than…than a piece of trash. The ultimate lowest of the low.

"I don't think so." He said coldly and walked away without a backward glance, straightening his suit as he went.

* * *

John flicked the telly off and stared around the semi-darkened flat. He had no clue where Sherlock was, though no doubt wherever he was he would be getting himself into trouble and requiring John to patch him up later tonight. Mrs. Hudson had gone out earlier. She and Mr. Kedgeree were back on, despite Sherlock's muttered warnings of his mistress over on 4th Street. John sighed and felt a bit depressed sitting at home by himself on a Friday night when everyone else he knew was out.

Sometimes it was ok, not having a girlfriend. It made for easier escapes when he and Sherlock would have a case. They would dash about London, the blood pumping in their veins, adrenaline making the night seem sharper and more alive- or maybe that was just Sherlock and the effect he always seemed to have on John. Those were the nights- and days- John did not mind that his dating life had gone all to hell and that the man beside him was at least 80% responsible for that decline. He could understand-_almost_- how Sherlock could declare he was married to his Work- once you experienced such a high everything else paled in comparison.

John briefly toyed with the idea of calling Sarah and seeing if she were free- but dismissed the thought, knowing it would not end well. She had told him, in no uncertain terms, that she would not compete with Sherlock Holmes…and if Sherlock _did_ come back hurt tonight, John would need to be by his side. He sighed and pursed his lips. He had been dateless for the past few months and it was starting to _really_ irritate him.

John glanced once more around the semi-darkened flat, mentally running through his list of mates, debating which ones would be available to go down to the pub with him. Most of them were in a relationship, some were too idiotic to even contemplate spending time with in the absence of a larger group, and then others were moved too far away. John shook his head and wondered- since when had Sherlock become the only friend he ever wanted to see? It had happened by degrees. From the moment the two had met at St. Bart's, Sherlock had slowly insinuated himself into almost every aspect of John's life…and John was finding that he was fine with that.

Growling, John propelled himself from the sofa and began cleaning the sitting room. It was an act of desperation to keep himself from boredom and feeling sorry for himself. He gathered up all the dirty cups- really, _how much tea did he and Sherlock drink_? - and took them to the kitchen. He paused in disbelief when he saw the mess Sherlock had left all over the table and countertops.

Broken petri dishes with a black ooze dripping onto the table, a large dismembered rat, various pieces of lettuce pinned to a white board that progressed from fresh and green to black and starting to smell, various pipettes and jumbled glass containers, unidentified bloody _parts_ that John felt slightly sick looking at and realizing only yesterday _he had eaten in that exact spot_- and Sherlock's microscope stood like a beacon of cleanliness amidst the mess. John cautiously stepped forward and peered into the nearest plastic container, wincing when he identified three ring fingers of varying colors with their nails removed. He looked disgustedly around the rest of the kitchen and mentally shrugged. Well, at least he would not be bored.

It took the better part of an hour to clean the kitchen but John kept himself entertained and sane by inventing creative curses to level at Sherlock later. When the last experiment had been disposed of, and John had taken a cleansing shower (some of the black ooze had gotten on his arm and John had been properly alarmed), he debated what to do with himself. John did not really expect Sherlock back until much later.

His eyes fell to his laptop, innocently lying near his armchair where he had placed it earlier. It was a brief debate before John grabbed the laptop and climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

* * *

"Don't be alarmed…it's to do with sex."

"The Virgin…"

Sherlock allowed himself a small, smug smirk as he darted down a darkened alleyway, taking the quickest way back to 221B across rooftops and down side streets. He had thought of hailing a cab but remembered John yelling something about the rent and why had Sherlock refused to take the missing diamond case. He toyed with the idea of faking an injury when he got back to the flat to make John feel badly for making him walk home…but decided to wait until later for his revenge. He knew tonight it would be easy to coerce John into making him a cup of tea or fixing one of his favorite meals. John had been dateless for the last few months and Sherlock liked having him at the flat at all times to cater to him. He did not know how John managed to date women such as the one tonight for extended periods of time and actually like it. For once, Sherlock's great mind was baffled.

The physical release from tonight was tainted by a twinge of annoyance at the insipidness of the woman and the time wasted. It had taken far too long to compel her to join him in the darkened hallway of the pub. It had been tedious, dull, and entirely mind-numbing. As Sherlock clattered down a fire escape, he caught whiffs of the woman's perfume and shuddered. He could not wait to be back at the flat so he could shower and slough the woman's scent from his body.

Sherlock knew it would surprise everyone to find out he was not a virgin and actually participated in sex on a semi-regular basis. The Work kept his mind preoccupied and during the high of a case, he never longed for or desired sexual release. It was a distraction he had trained himself not to feel and over the years had perfected. When Sherlock did want sex, he never had trouble finding men or women willing to sleep with him. He liked sex with men preferably, but tonight had been more about the ease of getting off with a willing body. His own body was transport and as long as he concentrated on the sensations of pleasure being evoked in his body, it all worked out the same.

It was a game he had started while he was at uni- meeting people, deducing them, molding himself into the character they wanted in order to get them to sleep with him- and it had not taken long for Sherlock to realize how valuable it was. It helped him master his skills of acting, persuasion, and deduction and had also helped him get off with whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and to a lonely, young uni student, that had been decidedly agreeable. Sherlock was already attractive and once he was able to accurately deduce everything he needed to know about his target, he could then shape his personality into anything the other person wanted. He could play a brooding bad boy, a genial uni student, a shy geek, or an outgoing and playful young man as he had tonight. He could read potential in their smallest tics and know the exact words to speak in order to achieve his ends. It was child's play.

When he returned to the flat, John was nowhere to be seen but a quick sweep of the sitting room- remarkably clean- and the absence of John's laptop told him John was in his room. He deduced in a second what John was doing and, by examining the sofa, Sherlock decided he had another 15 minutes before John would be down again and could fix him tea. Perfect opportunity to shower.

Sherlock, a towel wrapped around his waist, was vigorously drying his hair when there was a brief knock at the door.

"Sherlock- you ok?" John's voice sounded worried.

"Yes, fine, John." He carelessly tossed the towel to the side and opened the door. John was standing in the hall and his eyes took in Sherlock's partially nude body in seconds. It was the barest of eye flicks- up and down, over before it began, but still there nonetheless- and Sherlock watched with a hint of amusement as John's eyes bore steadily into his own after that brief slip-up. John was usually more careful than that.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock strode past him down the hall, feeling John's eyes on his body, and into his bedroom.

"You don't have the best track record for going out on your own and coming back unscathed," John grumbled as he entered the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Oh, _please_, John, I can take care of myself." Sherlock yelled from his bedroom irritably. He heard John snort as he banged the kettle around, making their tea, and was glad he had not faked an injury in retaliation for the lack of cab fare.

Sherlock, fully dressed, froze when he entered the kitchen. John's cleaning had obviously been concentrated here and he had never seen the kitchen so clean since before he had moved in, and certainly not after. None of the experiments on the table had been important but Sherlock's stomach sank as he lunged for the fridge.

"Don't worry. I didn't touch the bird's head in the crisper drawer. It seemed the most important. I did put all your petri dishes on the middle shelf and moved the jar of eyes to the bottom."

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and glanced at John to find him smiling at him. He smiled back. It was so easy living with John. The man really understood him.

"What inspired this cleaning spree?"

"I've been bored." John replied. "'Course, nowhere near _your _level of boredom and I didn't feel the need to shoot holes in any of the walls. That's what normal people do when they're bored, Sherlock. Clean. Find something to occupy themselves."

"Dull." Sherlock grinned, accepting his tea and striding into the sitting room. He reclined on the sofa and propped his feet up.

"So, where have _you_ been then?"

Sherlock briefly thought of telling John he had been out shagging, but dismissed it as coarse and beneath him. Besides, John would not believe him- and then if he did the questions would never end. Since when? Who was the first? How many times? There was a reason Sherlock kept the knowledge he was not a virgin to himself. Everyone was so interested in his sex life- much too interested. It was annoying.

Sherlock shrugged and it was a testament to their friendship that John did not press him but simply accepted that as an answer.

John sat in his armchair, Sherlock closed his eyes, and the pair fell into a comfortable silence. It was _nice_, being able to sit with John and not have to entertain him, not have to impress him with anything other than being himself. The thought, after tonight, was oddly soothing to Sherlock's mind.

His eyes flew open at his next thought.

He instantly dismissed it…then re-examined it.

Well, why not?

John already catered to his every need- why not this need as well? It was not as if they would not both benefit.

His eyes flicked over to John who was now absorbed with a paperback. Sherlock knew what John had been doing in his bedroom that night- it did not take a genius to figure that out. John was between girlfriends, he was a man in his prime, and undoubtedly the sexual frustration was taking its toll. One only had to look at the spotless kitchen and deduce that.

John was already fascinated with him, and quite a bit attracted to him. All the signs were there: elevated pulse, dilated pupils, and Sherlock would have to be a moron not to notice the way John looked at him. Tonight had been a perfect example. The man may profess to be heterosexual but there was a heat to his gaze that Sherlock knew was anything but straight. John's blog was an ode to him, he consistently chose Sherlock over his girlfriends, and he told Sherlock he was brilliant on an almost daily basis.

It would be beneficial for Sherlock because he would not have to waste time and energy and go out in search of a willing sexual partner- one would be living with him. John would not even have to remain with him all the time or stop dating those _creatures_, just be available when Sherlock needed him- after cases, when he was extremely bored, etc. He wouldn't have to deduce and pretend and act. He could just be himself with John and John _would still want him_.

It was the perfect solution and he was sure John would see it as thus. No doubt John would put up token resistance- "I'm not _gay_, Sherlock!"- but in the end he would succumb. Sherlock knew he had a pleasing body, knew he was considered very attractive and John already thought him thus. It would not be hard to convince him, especially when Sherlock allowed him to see how very mutually beneficial the arrangement could be. When he deigned to do so, Sherlock could be a very generous sexual partner and there was no reason he wouldn't be with John. He liked John.

"What?" John asked, disconcerted that Sherlock had been staring at him for the past five minutes.

"Nothing." Sherlock said, dragging his eyes away from John and closing them. This needed further analysis.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to everyone who has supported this story! I always read every single review and encourage everyone to leave one- even if you don't like the fic. Let me know.**

**I want to apologize for being so slow to update. I usually try to do better than this but real life has smacked me in the face and derailed my writing a bit. Obviously, I am still writing and have not abandoned this fic :)**

* * *

"I'm not _gay_, Sherlock."

John looked at his smug flatmate over the charred remains of his breakfast, smoke still wafting through the air, and tried to determine if Sherlock had finally gone mental, or if this were his idea of an experiment. It didn't make sense but much of what Sherlock did never made sense to John. He had learned to deal with it, shrug, and turn the other way and hope Sherlock did not burn the flat down or injure himself too badly.

This, though, was far different from anything Sherlock had done before. It was _far_ different for his presumed asexual, virginal flatmate to waltz into the kitchen and suddenly declare he thought they should begin sleeping together.

* * *

"John, I think we should have sex."

John jumped and whirled to stare at Sherlock who was leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen, casual and at ease. John felt as if he had received an electrical shock. His ears _had_ to be playing tricks with him…there was no way Sherlock had just said...

"_What_?" John's voice was high-pitched in surprise and Sherlock smirked.

"Sex, John. I believe we should have sex." Sherlock pushed away from the door and walked further into the kitchen, closing the distance between them. "It has recently come to my attention that neither of us is particularly happy with our sex lives and it is my hypothesis that we could reach a mutually beneficial arrangement in which we-"

"Have sex." John finished faintly, staring at Sherlock who was now leaning over him, his eyes deducing John's every minute facial tic. This close, John could see each eyelash surrounding Sherlock's intense green eyes and his own eyes dropped to Sherlock's lips without his permission, his breathing stuttering out shakily. John hauled his gaze back up to meet Sherlock's and clenched his jaw. Sherlock beamed at him as if John had just solved a particularly quarrelsome problem.

"Yes."

An explosion of questions took place in John's mind at that instant- Did Sherlock mean he wanted to have sex- _sex_?- with John? Was Sherlock a virgin? Did he want to give his virginity to John? Did this mean Sherlock was not asexual? When he said sex, what did that entail? Why was the thought of everything that _could_ entail turning John on? _Was this for a bloody experiment_? Why was John's heart pounding so hard? Why was there smoke in the air? Smoke- _oh shit_!

John cursed and turned to find his bacon in flames. He fumbled with an oven mitt and pot lid, questions still exploding in his head like a fireworks display- Did this mean Sherlock was gay? Did this mean _John_ was gay since he was turned on by the idea? When would Sherlock want to start having sex? _What_?!

Sherlock smirked and settled at the table, propping his chin on his hands and not saying a word, merely watching his flustered flatmate fumble with the smoking conflagration on the stove.

Finally, John tossed the fire extinguisher away and slumped into the chair opposite Sherlock. He was sure he looked utterly gob smacked and he ran a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes which were stinging from the smoke, and looked across at Sherlock.

"You…want to have sex with me?"

"Yes, I just said that."

"I thought you were a virgin."

Sherlock gave John such a withering look that he did not even think of asking him if he were asexual.

"John. I am a 32 year old man. Do you _really_ believe I would have lived my entire life without ever having sex?" Sherlock replied scathingly.

"Fine, fine, it's just…you said, boyfriends, girlfriends, not really your area. It just made me think…"

"They're not. I do not believe I have ever had anyone who could be classified as a boyfriend- definitely not a girlfriend."

"So you're…gay?"

"We are both adults, John, it would pleasant to have a conversation in which you did not blush when you used certain words."

"Look, it's just a lot to take in, all right? I thought you were- were asexual or a virgin or something for the past year and now…now you want us to have sex together. It's just…bizarre." John suddenly straightened in his chair and glared back at Sherlock. "Is this some experiment?"

"_No, John_." Sherlock said with a sigh of long-suffering. Really, must everything he ever do be considered an experiment? "I want us to have sex for purely recreational purposes."

"I'm not _gay_, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked very smug for some reason. "While I understand how you would reach that conclusion considering the years of experience you have with women, I believe you would find yourself to be mistaken. I have observed the particular way you look at me, on more than one occasion- just now in the kitchen and last night when I got out of the shower are two examples. On this occasion, your pupils are dilated, increased pulse, and your breathing has picked up- all without my even _touching_ you. The idea of having sex with me arouses you and you are…intrigued by my suggestion. That would suggest that you are not as straight as previously thought."

"Or just being surprised by my mental flatmate," John muttered, running a hand through his hair in agitation, realizing he had been an idiot for thinking he could keep his attraction a secret from Sherlock Holmes. He had probably realized it before John had, to be honest. "That doesn't make me gay-"

"What does it matter what it makes you? Sexuality can be very fluid; one does not need to be rigidly gay or straight." Sherlock cut across him smoothly. "What it does mean is that you have a sexual attraction to me that we could use in order to come to a mutually beneficial arrangement."

"In which we have sex." John repeated, unable to get past this particular point. Sex with Sherlock Holmes. He looked away from Sherlock, smiling incredulously. "Are _you_ then?"

"Am I what?"

"Sexually attracted to me?" John asked, feeling a bit juvenile and stupid. He found that he highly doubted Sherlock was attracted to him. He could not imagine a world in which Sherlock- tall, elegant, brilliant- found him- short, compact, ordinary- attractive.

"Yes." Sherlock said. No elaboration, no further thought. Just a simple yes. John felt his jaw drop and his heart rate spike at the same moment his stomach dipped pleasantly. _Fuck_.

"For how long?" John choked out.

Sherlock shrugged and seemed uninterested. "You are missing the point, John. This is not about how long I have been attracted to you. This is about us having sex."

"I would think that would go hand in hand there, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and waved a hand dismissively. "Now, my proposal is that we become, to use the correct terminology, "friends with benefits." Our current friendly arrangement- living together, solving cases- simply changes a bit to include sex. We will not be exclusive, meaning you may continue to date whomever you wish. I have no interest in that area but I would require that we do not have sex while I am on a case or experimenting. Otherwise, we would be able to have sex whenever we wished…" Sherlock trailed off as John remained silent across from him, avoiding eye contact and looking a bit ill.

"What's wrong?"

John shook his head, standing up and gripping the back of his chair, drawing a deep breath, and still avoiding eye contact. "I'm just…surprised, Sherlock." He tried to sound nonchalant and smiled at Sherlock, whose eyes narrowed. "I mean…here I was not even...thinking you knew what sex was and then…then this morning I'm being offered gay sex over breakfast. It could ruin our friendship. Sex always ruins a friendship." John seemed very confidant of this and Sherlock wondered where he had gotten his facts.

"Our friendship has survived a lot more than sex, John." Sherlock said drily. "Bombs, murder attempts, drugs, sickness, abductions...

"Yeah, but sex is different. Sex is…" John struggled to think how sex was different from murder attempts. It should not have been so hard but this was Sherlock he was trying to explain it to. "_Different_. There are…emotions and…sentiment when people have sex, Sherlock."

"I would not have expected _you_ to have a problem with casual sex, John. If I am not mistaken I have heard your old army friends call you _Three Continents Watson_."

John forced himself to laugh and stared down at his hands as if he were embarrassed of the nickname. There was no way he could explain to Sherlock that sex with him would be anything but casual. Casual sex was when one went out to a pub, picked up some stranger, shagged, and didn't call them the next day. Sex would be far from casual between them. They were already _living together_ for fuck's sake! They were very close friends- John knew he was Sherlock's only friend- and they did everything together. There were even times John was afraid he was already half-in-love with the strange man who had swept into his life and turned everything refreshingly upside down. Even if he weren't maybe- probably not- in love with Sherlock, didn't Sherlock realize there would be nothing _casual_ about their having sex?

Sherlock could already tell John was going to say no. It was easy to see the closed off lines of his posture, the hesitancy in his eyes, and the nervous way he fidgeted. John wanted him, but he was going to say no. He was worried about having sex with a man, what that would mean for his sexuality, what that meant about himself. Sherlock knew not to push him, though. John would, he firmly believed, agree eventually.

"Sorry, Sherlock but…no. I can't. It wouldn't work out. I don't want to jeopardize what we already have." John said, his voice firm but there was a tenor of longing and Sherlock, from years born of deducing and analyzing people, could see the crack in John's resistance that he could work with without being aggressive.

Sherlock nodded and stood. He allowed his gaze to travel from John's face, down his body, pausing briefly but noticeably at John's crotch, and then slowly moving back up to John's eyes. Sherlock then smirked, just a hint of a smile, quirked an eyebrow, and faked a look of heat and desire. He watched John's pupils visibly dilate from all the way across the kitchen.

"Very well then. It was simply a suggestion."

Sherlock walked out of the kitchen, and John took a deep breath, not even realizing he had not been breathing the whole time Sherlock had looked at him_. Holy fuck_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks to everyone who is following this fic! **

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

Over the next two weeks, nothing further was said on the subject and everything seemed normal between them. John worked at the surgery, came home, helped Sherlock with cases, and patched him up when things went wrong. Sherlock experimented in the kitchen (it had taken only 4 hours for the kitchen to look as if it had never been cleaned), allowed John to yell at him over the mess, succeeded in arresting a murderer and busting up a small time drug ring, and got told off by Detective Inspector Lestrade while John stitched up his arm. John realized, looking back, that he should have known better than to expect Sherlock to just let the matter go. This was Sherlock, after all.

It was the morning of the thirteenth day since Sherlock had suggested he and John have sex. John was in the kitchen cooking breakfast and not paying much attention to what was occurring anywhere else in the flat. His eyes were glazed, remembering how Sherlock had looked at him in this very kitchen, remembering his suggestion. It was not something John thought about often and it was surprisingly easy not to remember when he was around Sherlock as the consulting detective was acting as if he had never made the suggestion. This made it easier for John to forget- and that was what he was trying to do- forget. Nothing good could result in he and Sherlock becoming "friends with benefits" and so John was trying to firmly place the thoughts (and there were many, erotic, torturous thoughts) from his head. This morning, he was struggling just a bit after a particularly vivid dream from the night before and trying to tamp down his own desire that wished he had said yes when-

"Lestrade texted. There's a murder-"

John jumped and whirled around, his spatula poised as if it were a weapon. Sherlock smirked at him from a foot away, his wet hair dripping onto his bare chest, those droplets running down his pale torso to be soaked into the towel that was hanging precariously from his lean hips. John's eyes widened and he could not stop himself from looking, tracing the path of a drop of water as it glided down Sherlock's stomach, before remembering what he was doing and frowned.

"It's not a good idea to sneak up on me, Sherlock. I've killed people."

Sherlock's smirk grew wider. "I don't think you could kill me with a spatula, John." He stepped closer and John abruptly turned around, attempting to shut Sherlock out, and to make sure his bacon did not burn again.

"You'd be surprised at the different ways I could kill you. Maybe you could make that your next experiment- death by spatula. Go and bother Molly at the morgue." John was very much aware of Sherlock at his back, too close, moving closer. He refused to let Sherlock know this bothered him-

"We have a case," Sherlock said, leaning closer to John so his lips were inches from John's neck, his curly, wet hair brushing against John's ear, his voice impossibly low. John had no control over the convulsive shudder down his spine.

He cleared his throat and shifted as far away from Sherlock as he could in the small space. It was not much. "I heard you. I'll just finish this while you're getting dressed."

"Hurry. Lestrade sounded very…insistent." Sherlock purred, and John made the mistake of looking over his shoulder at him. Sherlock's face was inches from his own and he watched as Sherlock's eyes lowered to look at his lips, his tongue snaking out to lick his lips as if anticipating kissing John. John watched the movement, aware of his heart pounding, aware of how close Sherlock was, the small distance between them, how easy it would be to close that distance, the fiery warmth at his back- _shit_!

"Fuck, Sherlock , stop _doing_ that!" John said angrily, trying once again to put out the flames that were leaping from the pan he had been cooking with.

The only response was the sound of Sherlock's laughter as it echoed from his bedroom.

* * *

Two weeks ago, Sherlock had been convinced John would eventually say yes. John was concerned about his sexual orientation, worried over the fact that he may not be completely straight and what this meant about him, but once he resolved that he would agree to Sherlock's plan. Sherlock was confidant of this. After two weeks, though, Sherlock felt…nervous. It seemed John had forgotten about the matter and was acting as if nothing had ever been said. Sherlock had been closely observing John but nothing he did gave Sherlock any indication he was even _thinking_ about his offer, much less obsessing over it as Sherlock had anticipated he would. John was not avoiding him, not acting strangely, seemed perfectly at ease around him, and kept his eyes firmly fixed on Sherlock's but not in an obvious I'm-trying-not-to-stare-at-your-body sort of way. John was just acting normally, as if Sherlock had not offered the man unlimited sexual access to his body.

Slowly, the realization came to Sherlock that John had meant what he said when he told Sherlock no. He was not going to change his mind, and that this might have less to do with John's sexual orientation than Sherlock had originally thought.

Sherlock felt…angry. Yes, it was _anger_ that made his heart beat faster and twisted his stomach in knots, and made him suddenly wonder- why? Why would John say no to him? John _never_ said _no_ to him. Even when Sherlock had called John during one of his dates to bring him fresh samples from St. Bart's (a case had hinged on the results of the subsequent experiment), John had not said _no_. John had not said _no_ when Sherlock had organized his ties and his clothes by color, had not said _no_ when Sherlock had brought home the head and placed it in the fridge, not said _no_ when Sherlock continually placed him in life-threatening situations, not said no…John never said _no_ to _him_. This time though, John had said no, had _rejected_ him. Sherlock had been rejected before, numerous times, and he never thought anything about it…but he had never been rejected by _John_. He did not like the feeling.

John had shown signs of obvious sexual attraction to him- why would he then say no? He had thought over every angle of why John would refuse and finally realized John had perhaps meant what he said when he thought it would damage their friendship. Sherlock did not understand why John was making such a big deal about their having sex together. They were friends- John was his _only_ friend- and they already did _everything_ together. They solved cases together, lived together, killed people together, usually got sick together (though Sherlock had a theory that needed testing which would stop this vicious chain), spent time together, laughed together…why not have sex together? It made _perfect_ _sense_. John wanted him and he was just denying it- which was ridiculous as it would not damage their friendship in the slightest. If John could still be Sherlock's friend after almost being blown up by Moriarty, why wouldn't he still be Sherlock's friend after…

It was not hard for Sherlock to make the decision to seduce John Watson.

It was purely for convenience, Sherlock told himself. The sooner he got John to agree, the sooner they could start having sex and Sherlock would not have to go out and waste his time on useless people. John would also be more relaxed, happier, and would not have to waste time on his laptop. Sherlock thought of his time spent seducing John as a sort of investment: once he captured John's attentions, he would then have them for the rest of the time they lived together- which could be years. John's stupid assumption that it would ruin their friendship was just that- stupid. Idiotic.

* * *

John stood at the crime scene and exchanged annoyed looks with Lestrade. They had just been yelled at to be quite- though neither had been talking- as Sherlock examined the body. The posh flat seemed the last place a violent murder and kidnapping would have taken place but the evidence that it had was the brutally murdered babysitter, currently lying in a pool of blood, and the missing four year old boy. Time was of the essence; hence Lestrade was willing to do anything Sherlock asked in order to rescue the child in time. Even take his verbal abuse and not say one word in retaliation.

As the minutes ticked on and Sherlock hovered around the body, his pocket magnifier out, deducing at lightning fast pace, but not saying a word, Lestrade started growing antsy. He sighed quietly…scrubbed his face with his hands…frowned and shifted from foot to foot…looked at John…opened his mouth then closed it…shook his head…then opened his mouth again. Paused. Then finally seemed to reach a decision.

"What've you got, Sherlock?" he called, refusing to be intimidated by the ensuing glare Sherlock gave him.

"John, I need your medical opinion." Sherlock said, ignoring Lestrade. John exchanged another look with Lestrade then strode over to the body.

"What is it?" It seemed like a pretty straightforward murder, in John's opinion. The young woman had been brutally beaten and then shot in the forehead. What did Sherlock expect him to find that he, the genius detective, had not already?

"Here, John. What do you make of these marks?" Sherlock asked, pointing at the bruises that circled the woman's otherwise pale neck.

John frowned and crouched beside him, leaning closer to the woman, his nostrils assaulted by the smell of fresh blood, and looked where Sherlock had pointed. It was hard to tell, and if he had not been looking for it he would never have seen it, but underneath the livid bruises from being strangled, was a…a hickey. An old mark, faded, but there nonetheless. John reported this to Sherlock who smiled.

"Exactly." He rose to his full height and offered John a hand. John took it without hesitation and Sherlock pulled him up- hard. John fell into Sherlock, their bodies bumped together, and John's nose brushed Sherlock's neck. He inhaled the clean, musky smell that was pure Sherlock and John felt the flush of heat and the blush stealing up his cheeks. Sherlock let go of his hand and abruptly turned away, his phone out, seemingly oblivious that they had touched at all, telling Lestrade in a bored, droll voice what he had found and where the child could potentially be located.

Everyone scattered, and John quickly followed Sherlock from the flat, confused as to their direction since he had missed almost everything Sherlock had just said. He rotated his neck and stiffened his back. Time to focus on the case, not his flatmate. It should not have been so fucking hard.

* * *

Five hours later, Sherlock was stretched on the sofa and John was vigorously scrubbing himself in the shower. The murderer had been the husband and father of the child. He had been having an affair with the babysitter who had grown tired of keeping their relationship a secret and had threatened to tell his wife. The husband had shot her and taken his son, making a run for it, but Sherlock had discovered his whereabouts and prevented him from leaving the country. In order to do this, he and John had been forced to crouch in a dumpster for an hour, hence the pressing need to shower. Sherlock had won the rock-paper-scissors in the cab ride home and had gotten to take the first shower. He always won and wondered why John still played with him.

The doorbell rang downstairs and Sherlock hauled himself down to get the Chinese takeaways John had ordered while he got clean. Now the case was over, Sherlock could feel his mind beginning to crawl and itch, his skin prickling, and he felt irritation that John was still refusing to have sex with him. He calculated the odds that John would say yes tonight close to 5%, even considering how Sherlock had teased him today, and frowned, thinking of going out that night and being forced to endure the tedious company of another human being. Dull.

He was pouting on the sofa when John came out of the shower, his hair wet, and, after giving Sherlock an exasperated look for not doing so sooner, started fixing their plates.

John was trying not to think of the way Sherlock had looked that morning, fresh from his shower, but was unsuccessful at purging the image of that damn water droplet snaking its way down Sherlock's body. He sighed and tried to concentrate on the food, not the way Sherlock had smelled that day. It probably said something horrible about John that he had managed to become aroused at a crime scene in which a woman had been murdered and a little boy was missing…but he decided not to examine that very far.

John had been doing so well pretending that Sherlock had never made the offer of their having sex. He had just started thinking that Sherlock had forgotten it as well when he had walked into the kitchen this morning, almost naked- and then today at the crime scene. Now, all he could think was that if he had said yes, he and Sherlock would be having sex tonight. Sherlock had said after cases and John's mind helpfully supplied different scenarios which could- _stop it_, John sternly told himself. You made the right decision.

"You're not eating?" he called into the sitting room, glancing at Sherlock who was stretched out on the sofa with a truly horrible frown on his face. "You need to eat just like everyone else, Sherlock. You're not a robot."

Sherlock frowned even more as he entered the kitchen and took his plate from John. Their hands brushed and Sherlock watched as John's face turned just a bit pink and he avoided looking at Sherlock, pretending as if he were unaffected. Sherlock suddenly sensed there was a slightly better chance.

Sherlock put his plate down and moved closer to John who backed up until his hips hit the counter. John clenched his jaw and stared steadily up at Sherlock.

"Sherlock. _Stop_." He seemed serious, his voice hard and stern. His eyes looked almost angry and it was a look he had seen John give before, usually right before Sherlock did something that caused John to seriously lose his temper. Sherlock took the risk.

He leaned over, his curls brushing against John's head, and whispered in his ear, his lips inches away. "Are you sure, John?" Sherlock asked, his voice purring, "Are you sure you won't say yes?"

He heard John sharply inhale and pulled away to watch as John's eyes darkened, desire and anger warring for dominance. His lips were thinned and he looked, besides aroused, quite a bit pissed off.

"_I'm sure_." John said, his voice low and irritated. He brushed past Sherlock to continue ladling food onto their plates and Sherlock stayed where he was, anger of his own coursing through his body and making his stomach feel hollow and shaky.

When John turned around with Sherlock's plate, he was already gone.

And later that night, if Sherlock, a nameless man on his knees between his legs, could not stop his mind from flashing back to the way John's eyes had looked, he swore to keep that to himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

John felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket but ignored it. He blandly smiled at the woman seated across from him in the restaurant. Veronica was a friend of Sarah's, an old uni acquaintance, whom Sarah had claimed was "perfect" for John. Thus far, an hour into their date, he was unsure what Sarah had meant by this and was starting to feel a bit offended. His phone buzzed again.

"So, you're a teacher?"

"Sarah told you that, yeah? Well, yeah, I am. I mean, it's such a rewarding job and I love to teach so…yeah, I guess I am a teacher." Veronica said softly, smiling at John and moving her hand across the table. John pretended not to notice.

_You guess? Don't you know whether or not you're a teacher? Please, John, you can do so much better_. John forced another smile, ignored the imaginary Sherlock snarking in his head, and felt his phone buzz. Again.

"Excuse me." He said, grabbing it and shuffling quickly through his messages. One arrived even as he was reading.

_John, I require your assistance. SH_

_John, do not ignore me. I need you. SH_

_JOHN. SH_

_I know you hate when there is blood in the kitchen but as it is mine, I hope you will not be very angry. SH_

"Everything all right, yeah?"

John looked up and placed his phone on the table, feeling both angry and concerned.

"Yeah, everything's fine. So what year do you teach?"

"Oh, well, yeah, like, I teach-"

John's phone buzzed angrily against the tablecloth and both their eyes jumped to it.

"Are you sure everything's all right?" _Oh, a sentence that didn't end in "yeah." The night is looking up, John._

_John, I think I may need stitches. SH_

John sighed and stared at the message. It was a mark of how bad the last week had been that he seriously thought of not answering and letting Sherlock sort himself out. Unbidden, the image of Sherlock smirking at him from across the lab at St. Bart's came to mind, though why that image and not countless other more… erotic ones surfaced was strange. Sherlock had certainly provided John with many of those views over the past seven days.

He frowned at his phone. If Sherlock really needed him… not matter how big of a dick he was being…

"I'm sorry but I'm going to have to call the evening short. An emergency-"

"With your flatmate. Yeah, Sarah told me all about Sherlock." There was a knowing smile on Veronica's face that set John's teeth on edge.

"What did she tell you?"

"Yeah, like, you're _really close_ friends. He's the reason you can't keep a girlfriend, yeah. And he's all the time texting you and Sarah just thinks you should shag him already and get together-"

"We're not a couple and I'm not _gay_." John said, a bit irritated that Sarah and this woman had been having a chat about him behind his back- an extensive and invasive chat apparently. John's claim was undermined a bit when his phone vibrated again. Biting off a curse, he glanced at the screen.

_John, I may be passing out due to blood loss. If and when you return to the flat, please help me. SH_

Passing out from blood loss? John felt confident that if Sherlock were actually passing out from blood loss he would not be able to form cogent text messages but…what if he was seriously injured? And John sat here on this date with this woman, knowing he did not want to see her again, and let Sherlock bleed out on their kitchen floor? Or what if he attempted to sew himself up again? John shuddered remembering that episode.

"Sorry about…tonight." John said, standing up and pulling on his jacket. He felt another flash of irritation when the woman did not seem very surprised and even smiled, as if she had expected this to happen.

"Sarah said you would do this. I hope he's all right, yeah?"

"Yeah."

* * *

John strode quickly down the sidewalk, hoping to walk off his anger by the time he arrived back at the flat. He was so close it would be pointless to hail a cab- besides, he and Sherlock were trying to economize…no, _he_ was trying to economize. Sherlock did so if and when it suited him. He felt his anger at Sherlock rising with each step and whooshed out a breath. He knew he needed to calm down before he reached the flat. It was hard, though, when he knew what awaited him- and it was not simply an injured (he had _better_ be injured, John thought savagely) Sherlock.

Since the case with the babysitter over a week ago, Sherlock had apparently made it his mission in life to annoy, embarrass, and arouse John and remind him that he had offered him sex- and John had turned it down. Twice.

Sherlock would lean close to John while he was typing on his blog and breathe comments in John's ear. When John suggested he move, Sherlock would give him a knowing look- a look that had sent heat straight to John's groin- and he would move to sit in his armchair, continuing to look at John. John had tried to ignore him, got up and left the room, and even once stared back at him until he could almost feel Sherlock mentally removing his clothes. John had been unable to leave the room at that moment without allowing Sherlock visual proof that he had won. He made a mental note to never engage Sherlock in a staring contest again.

Other times, Sherlock would walk about in nothing but his pants, nothing but a towel- as if to say "Look, John, look what you could be having!" One memorable occasion stood out in John's mind. He had been sitting in his chair reading while Sherlock knelt on the floor and rummaged through the newspapers he had collected and kept- even though John told him they were a fire hazard- and suddenly Sherlock had looked up at John, appraisingly, and allowed his eyes to slide from John's face to a fixed point between his legs. John had kept his eyes firmly fixed on his book, refusing to acknowledge, refusing to let Sherlock know he was thinking the same thing… Sherlock had started to crawl across the floor towards him and John had bolted into the kitchen, asking if Sherlock wanted tea. The memory still made him blush.

The very air had settled thick over the flat and John had become hyper aware of where Sherlock was and what he was doing at all times. If his flat mate was trying to drive him round the bend, he was doing an admirable job. Except…John did not think that was Sherlock's goal. He was trying to get John to say yes, yes let's have sex, Sherlock, because that is the most brilliant plan I have ever heard of. Please, allow me to remove our clothes so we can commence shagging immediately. Do you want top or bottom?

John's anger spiked again.

It was about lack of respect, he fiercely thought as he turned the corner onto Baker Street. John knew Sherlock had little respect for him or anyone else, but when John said no, he did not want to have sex with him, he meant it and expected Sherlock to then let it go. He did not want Sherlock walking about the flat in nothing but his pants, he did not want him brushing against him and whispering in his ear and sending him suggestive looks. John wanted…_oh fuck it_, John wanted Sherlock and the man knew just the correct way to drive him up the wall. Of course he did, he was Sherlock bloody fucking Holmes.

And John wanted to say yes so…damn…badly.

* * *

Sherlock sat in the kitchen, a bloody towel wrapped around his arm, and laid his head against the rough wood of the table. He hated when his body betrayed him like this, needing blood and finding it lacking. Predictable. The room spun just a bit and he wished John would hurry and get home. He knew John would come because John never said no to him.

Well, not _anymore._

After easily deciding to seduce John, Sherlock had been having so much fun watching the way he reacted to him. He would do something outrageous, such as allow his hand to "accidentally" brush against John's backside, and watch as John first blushed and got aroused, then embarrassment was replaced with aroused anger, which was then replaced with false indifference and avoidance. It was an echo of the way Sherlock usually felt when pursuing someone- the thrill of the game, the observations and deductions he made about them, the flash of triumph when he was proven correct- but he had never done it to _John_ before in such a sexualized way. It was entirely new and John always acted in surprising ways- leaving the room, clenching his jaw, _unable_ to leave the room due to an impressive erection which he tried to pretend was not there…Sherlock had even thought once (after the "accidentally touched your bum" incident) that John would punch him. Sherlock had never had to work so hard for someone…and John was making him work. Sherlock had been _fascinated_.

A week later, he was less fascinated and more…more angry. John should not be rejecting him. He was using the "it will hurt our friendship" excuse as a smokescreen. There was another reason John didn't want to Sherlock and he could not figure out what it was. The man was _obviously_ attracted to him, could gain an erection from simply a heated glance (and after a week of intense teasing Sherlock had been treated to more than one sight of an erection through tented trousers), but he still refused. _Why_?

Sherlock tasted nausea at the back of his throat and wondered where John was. Would he start saying no to him all the time now?

"Fuck, Sherlock, what happened?"

_John_. How had he not heard him come in? Had he blacked out? Boring.

"Surprise attack." Sherlock said shortly as John knelt on the cold floor and gently lifted the soaked towel away, revealing a rather nasty and jagged cut from shoulder to forearm.

"Jesus, Sherlock, you should have gone to the hospital." John sounded angry and concerned and Sherlock lifted his head to stare blearily at him.

"You're my doctor."

John stared at him. It was a look Sherlock hated. It was the "you're being an idiot and should have gone to the hospital" look. He got that look a lot. He closed his eyes and laid his head back down on the table, wishing the room would stop spinning for just a moment so he could think.

"I'm sorry I interrupted what was surely a _fascinating_ date. No need to rush, John. I am sure I will not bleed out while you lecture me." It helped Sherlock's argument that a large quantity of blood had dripped from his arm onto the floor before he had managed to wrap the towel around the wound, making the situation appear worse than it was.

John cursed and moved away. Sherlock listened to him get his medical kit and the various sounds as he got ready to stitch him up.

"You're not going to bleed out. You're just being dramatic. It _is_ a nasty cut but you're going to be fine. No doubt it's blood loss combined with the fact you haven't eaten in four days making you so loopy." Sherlock barely flinched as John cleaned the wound and placed his first stitch.

"So, what happened?"

"You remember the drugs ring we exposed?"

John made an affirmative sound, his mind concentrated on his work, and continued stitching.

"Well, we knew we had not captured their leader-"

"_You went after him by yourself_?" John's angry voice was not reflected in his hands, which remained gentle and sure as he worked on Sherlock.

"It would have all gone according to plan if he had not hired idiotic thugs who could not follow orders." Sherlock said petulantly. "Besides, you were on a _date_." He added venomously.

John remained silent as he finished stitching and bandaged Sherlock's arm. Sherlock would later blame his actions on his transport failing due to loss of blood and lack of nourishment, but at the moment it seemed the perfect solution. Before John could move away, Sherlock swung forward and pressed his lips to John's throat. John's breath caught and Sherlock inhaled deeply, moving his lips unhurriedly up to the sensitive skin under John's ear.

"Say yes, John. _Say yes_." His teeth scraped against John's skin and he was suddenly gently shoved backwards with some care, since John obviously still felt bad about his wound.

"I'm not going to say yes!" John said, his face red and angry. "I'm not. I know you're doing all this- this last week…. to- to get me to say yes but it's not going to happen, Sherlock! _Ok_? It's not going to happen."

"Why not? And do not tell me that it is to preserve our friendship because I know that is not true." Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes in anger. John was being so obtuse.

John stared at him, his jaw clenched. Because I would fall in love with you, you idiot. And you wouldn't.

"I'm not going to say yes, Sherlock. Drop it."

Sherlock made a frustrated sound and slouched in his chair, too weak to straighten up properly. "Is it _me_ you have an objection to? I'm not…kinky."

John made a choked sound. "I didn't…that's not the reason-"

"You could top."

John buried his face in his hands and sighed. "That's not-"

"We would not have to do penetration. Manual stimulation-"

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, we are not discussing this because it's not on!" John rose from the floor and stiffly walked around the table. "I'm making you tea and then…and then you're going to bed. You've lost too much blood and _should_ be in the hospital-"

"I'll make you come first."

John stayed silent but Sherlock could tell that he had stopped moving. Say yes, say yes, say yes.

"Bed, Sherlock. Now."

Sherlock was rather shocked that John had finally agreed but he willingly complied as John helped him from the chair and half-dragged him into his room. He thought it would be a bit difficult to do this tonight. His body was rather weak and his head was fuzzy from loss of blood and he thought of explaining this to John- he may not give his best performance tonight but he would of course try. They were friends after all, and John would understand. Sherlock did feel a bit shoddy, though, making John's first sexual experience with a man a subpar event. He had wanted to impress him…

John maneuvered Sherlock onto the bed and pulled the covers over him. He was rendered momentarily disoriented as the room spun around him at a sickening speed and he blinked as John switched off the light and closed the door.

Sherlock frowned. John was on the wrong side of the door. He was supposed to be in the room with him- how were they supposed to have sex otherwise? Strange… It was his last thought before he fell asleep.

* * *

John sank weakly against Sherlock's closed bedroom door and groaned. He was either going to have to move out of the flat or say yes to Sherlock. And he really liked living here…which left only one option. John snorted, as if that option would be such a hardship.

* * *

**I once had a professor at college who said "yeah" all the time, in much the same way people say "like." This was my tribute to her. She was a wonderful professor but I could never concentrate on what she was saying because I would always be counting the "yeahs." Once, there were 156 said in a 90 minute class (I cannot remember what the lecture that day was about).**

**Thanks for all the lovely support for the fic! I know I am slow to update but I promise to continue to write. The next chapter is already written and just needs an edit so it should be up soon. I know I am drawing this out a bit, but my John is not a slut...yet. ;) Much love!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks, as always, goes to the people who are supporting this fic. I would probably not be writing if not for the awesome people in this fandom. I'm so lucky.**

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

"Eat, Sherlock."

Sherlock glared at John's back as the shorter man continued cooking, then glared at the plate John had placed in front of him, piled high with food. He did not deign to comment, nor did he make a move to eat, if only to infuriate John. He drew his sheet tighter around him, not feeling like seducing John at the moment when his head still felt a bit fuzzy and his cheeks stung from remembering how he had thrown himself at John last night…_and been rejected_. _Again_. He never felt embarrassment- ever, but the idea that John had still said no... Sherlock would not have even left his room that morning, if John had not barged in and _forced_ him into the kitchen, bundling him into his sheet with brisk, doctoral efficiency where he was insisting Sherlock eat something. Annoying.

Sherlock watched with a blank expression as John put his own plate down and sat opposite him, smiling blandly before starting to eat.

"Sherlock. You need to eat." John pushed the glass of orange juice at Sherlock to draw his attention to it.

"What for?" Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes and looking away from John.

"Because of your blood loss last night and because you haven't eaten in days." John replied, testily, placing his utensils down and lacing his fingers beneath his chin. "Don't make me force you to eat again."

Sherlock's eyes darted to meet his and he frowned. "You wouldn't." The warning was implicit and they each stared at each other, remembering the last time John had forced Sherlock to eat. Sherlock was weighing the odds that John would resort to such actions again when John shrugged and began to stand.

Sherlock quickly reached for his fork and cut into the omelet. John suppressed a triumphant grin as Sherlock slowly began to eat, frowning like a petulant child and shooting John death glares between bites.

John wanted to say yes. God, help him, he wanted to say yes so badly, even knowing he would probably get hurt.

Maybe it would be possible for him to separate sex from love with Sherlock. He knew Sherlock believed his body was transport. Maybe John could keep a clear head and do the same- imagine his body was transport and forget it was Sherlock he was having sex with. He could go into the agreement with his eyes open, aware of the risks and…who was he kidding? He was already halfway there…this would doom him.

It was not a good idea.

His life was already so entwined with Sherlock's…was he prepared to give him this part of it as well? Because John knew it would not be just sex, no matter what he told himself or how much he tried to convince himself he could keep his distance emotionally. Oh, it would start out as "just sex" but eventually, if they kept at it, it would turn into something else. John knew, with a solid, inevitable feeling, that he could fall in love with Sherlock with very little persuasion. He was already on the way, and that was without involving sex. Then what would happen?

John cringed even thinking about Sherlock discovering it- imagining the cold, forbidding look (or worse the derisive laughter) Sherlock would give him when he was being a particularly big idiot.

His mind was screaming "No! No! Don't do it! You're only going to get hurt! It's too dangerous!"

John blushed when he listened to what his body was screaming. Maybe he should say no…

He looked over at Sherlock who was now glaring at his food and completely ignoring John. He had never wanted anything so much.

_Could be dangerous_.

"Do you still want to?" John suddenly asked, and Sherlock's head snapped up. He frowned but did not even ask to what John was referring.

"Yes."

John was silent for a long minute and he and Sherlock stared at each other across the table. John's heart was thumping painfully beneath his ribs, his nerves jumping, knowing he was about to either make the biggest mistake of his life…or the best. He took a shuddering breath, fisting his hands in his lap, and cleared his throat.

"Ok."

John watched as the frown disappeared from Sherlock's face and he stared blankly at him for a few seconds, before smiling wickedly.

"Excellent."

"We need to talk."

"About?"

"About what this means. What will we tell people?"

"I already told you what this means, John- friends with benefits. Why would we tell anyone? Why would our having sex be anyone's business?" Sherlock's eyes suddenly opened, wide in horrified shock. "You're not thinking of putting this on your blog, are you?" he asked harshly, straightening in his chair as if to bodily prevent John from doing this.

John blushed and choked on air. "No, no…of course not- _no_! I just…wondered what we would be telling people, that's all…if they find out? Everyone already thinks we're shagging-"

"Then why would we have to tell them anything?" Sherlock asked, scathingly. "We are both consenting adults. What we do to each other is no one's concern."

John blew out a breath. "Right. And what would that be, exactly?"

"What would what be?"

John pinched the bridge of his nose and already regretted saying yes. It was awkward as arse talking about this sort of thing with Sherlock. He was sure it would be even more awkward if and when they actually did anything together.

"Sex. What would that be, exactly?"

One corner of Sherlock's mouth curved up in a devious smirk. "Are you trying to tell me you're a virgin, John?"

John gaped at him in surprise before his face collapsed in laughter, breaking the tension. Sherlock grinned over at him, his chest no longer so tight and there was a happy feeling rising up inside him._ John had said yes._

"Ok, _no_. That's _not_ what I was meaning." John chuckled, grinning at Sherlock. "I've never had sex with a _man_, Sherlock."

"Obviously, however you _are_ a man and own a computer, therefore the basic knowledge should not be mysterious to you."

John snorted and slouched in his chair, gazing over at Sherlock.

"So?"

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "So?"

"Sex, Sherlock. What would we be doing?"

"Anything you want, John." Sherlock said, and he meant it. Sex with John would be pleasurable and he felt safe allowing John to do anything he wanted. John wouldn't hurt him.

John swallowed and blushed. Sherlock smirked and opened his mouth to suggest-

The sudden chime of Sherlock's mobile made them both jump. John ran a hand over his face and smiled at Sherlock, his eyes twinkling.

"Probably Lestrade. Perfect timing."

Sherlock snorted as he rose to retrieve his mobile. It was indeed Lestrade, not with a case but a simple consultation, and he quickly told John the details.

John nodded and seemed somewhat both relieved and disappointed. "All right. Great. I'll just get ready then."

Sherlock started to his room to get dressed, then paused and turned to pin John with a heated look.

"Oh, and John? Just so you're aware, after I solve this, I fully intend to perform fellatio on you against _that_ wall." Sherlock smirked as John looked at the wall he had indicated and blushed.

"Just so you're aware."

* * *

John could not concentrate. All he could think of as Sherlock weaved this way and that around the body in the dank alleyway- the dead man was missing both hands and feet- was what would take place afterwards. He was half-hard the entire time and now he definitely knew this said something bad about him but there was no way he could stop. He could not stop staring at Sherlock and remembering what he had said he would do once the case was over, then thinking about doing it to Sherlock. John was just glad no one was paying any attention to him, including Sherlock.

Sherlock was very much aware of John's thoughts but ignored him in favor of the case, which was only semi- interesting. He gave his deductions to Lestrade, sending him off in the right direction, and then turned to John. John felt a pleasant tug in his stomach, then swift, hot arousal as Sherlock's eyes darkened and he smirked, a slow, anticipatory look that made John wish they were already back at the flat.

* * *

Sherlock pounced as soon as the door to the flat closed. He lunged forward, angling his head to latch onto John's neck, kissing and gently biting him, steering John until his back hit the wall- the exact one he had marked earlier. John gasped, surprised and aroused at the same time, and gripped Sherlock's shirt to pull the taller man to him. He had not expected this to happen so suddenly but Sherlock seemed to have planned this out, if the way he were expertly undoing John's belt and fly were any indication.

"Oh, fuck, Sherlock- _slow down_!" John gasped, thrusting as Sherlock's hand snaked its way into his pants and grasped him firmly. John moaned and bucked his hips as the hand began roughly stroking him.

Sherlock's mouth suddenly jumped straight from John's neck to his crotch, and Sherlock sank elegantly to his knees. His teeth scraped gently at John through his pants before he pulled both trousers and pants down to mid-thigh.

John's cock throbbed slightly as Sherlock sat back to look at it, then ran his hand up the length, slowly and teasingly.

John stood up on tiptoe to rock into the feeling and Sherlock's hands immediately came up to force his hips back against the wall, pinning him. He leaned forward and licked a quick line up John's cock- John gasped and tried to thrust forward again but Sherlock's strong hands prevented it.

"Tell me when you're about to orgasm." Sherlock commanded before lowering his head and taking the entire length into his mouth.

John later thought it was like being sexed by a hurricane. It was all fast movement, firm strokes, and an obvious goal that seemed to need to be reached immediately. It was the quickest blow job John had ever been the recipient of and he could not concentrate or keep his train of thought as Sherlock bobbed his head and John watched the performance with wide eyes. He wanted to savor the feeling, experience the delicious slow build of his orgasm, learn the sensation of Sherlock's mouth against him. Instead, all he could think of was 'Sherlock's on his knees sucking my cock, Oh, god, Oh, god, Sherlock's….that's…Sherlock….

It took an embarrassingly quick amount of time before John was gripping Sherlock's hair and…

"Sh-Sherlock, I'm about…about to," John stammered.

Sherlock pulled away at the last second- John made a pained, surprised sound- and finished him off with his hand. John threw his head back, banging it on the wall behind him, and gasped, his eyes flying open as his orgasm wrecked him. He could feel his knees violently shaking and became aware that his hands were tangled in Sherlock's hair, gripping the curls with some force. He gently took his hands away- Sherlock winced as a few hair parted company from his head, and leveled John with a look.

"Don't do that again," his voice was low and throaty and John felt his cock twitch when he knew it was from giving him head.

"Sorry." John said weakly, leaning against the wall for support until his knees quit shaking, trying to relearn how to breathe and take in the knowledge that Sherlock had just given him a blow job. He was still a bit stunned.

Sherlock sprung lightly to his feet as John fumbled with his pants and trousers, adjusting them until he was covered again.

"Where do you want me?" Sherlock asked, his voice still low and throaty and John suddenly wanted- no, _needed_- to do the same for him. It was probably not that hard. He had been on the receiving end of head before- he could surely give good head.

"Sofa."

Sherlock sank down onto the sofa and John, after a brief hesitation, knelt between his knees. Now came the part Sherlock _really_ looked forward to. He was already hard and throbbing in his trousers. His mind was clamoring to be calmed and the muscles in his thighs twitched in anticipation.

Sherlock undid his own trousers and pushed his pants down so his cock could spring free. He closed his eyes in anticipation of what John would do, the pleasure he would evoke, and so he missed the heated gaze John gave him, the way he looked at his cock with a mixture of surprise and arousal before slowly lowering his head and licking tentatively.

It was obvious John had never done this before and his lack of skill was glaring, but not off-putting. It wasn't that bad, Sherlock thought, if he would just- _fuck_!

Sherlock canted his hips away and slid wetly from John's lips.

"What?" John asked.

"You're not supposed to use your teeth!"

John flushed a dark red. "I didn't mean to." He huffed out a sigh and looked away. "I've never done this before."

Sherlock refrained from saying "Obviously" but it was close. John gave him a dirty look as if he could read Sherlock's thoughts and started again. Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed through his nose at the first initial pleasurable feel of John's mouth around him.

It did not last long.

"Where are you getting your information?" Sherlock could not help asking after a few minutes, unable to reach orgasm when John kept changing his rhythm and motions, bobbing his head too fast, then too slowly, then not at all and just moving his tongue. It was distracting and awkward.

John pulled back and stretched his lips before answering. "Um…from past experiences. What I've had done to me. What I liked, what I didn't like." He shrugged, looking pleased with himself, and Sherlock frowned.

"I think you should assume that anything you didn't like could be gotten rid of and never perpetrated on my person again."

"Right." John cleared his throat and blushed. "Why don't I just stop then?" Sherlock watched with wide eyes as he actually started to get up.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, though it was obvious. John paused then sank to his knees again. Sherlock's cock twitched at the movement.

"Look, if you want me to do this you need to stop talking and criticizing. If you don't like what I'm doing don't sit there and be a dick about it. Tell me what I'm doing wrong and how you like it."

"I just gave you fellatio in the hallway and if I am not mistaken you have had the same act performed on you before. What is so difficult?"

John smiled but it was an annoyed smile that Sherlock had seen right before his patience snapped. "How many guys have you done this to then?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Does it matter?"

"You just obviously have experience doing this. I don't. Why don't you tell me what you like then?"

John slid Sherlock back into his mouth and he canted his hips forward slightly. "Talking detracts from my sexual enjoyment. I am not writing a step-by-step instruction manual for youuuaah!"

John managed to smirk around Sherlock's penis, dragging his tongue along the length, as Sherlock watched with wide eyes.

"I guess you liked that then." John smiled that annoyed smile again before sliding his mouth down over Sherlock's length, as far as he could, then slowly drawing it out. He wrapped one hand around the base and used that to stimulate the parts of Sherlock's penis his mouth could not. He worked both his mouth and hand in tandem, keeping a steady pace, and Sherlock relaxed beneath him, closing his eyes and leaning his head back again.

"So I'm assuming you like that and I don't need to change?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open to pin John with an exasperated look.

"Just checking to see that my technique is not putting you off." John smirked at him and Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he realized what John was doing.

"You're doing fine." He gritted out and John smirked again before take him in his mouth. This time, Sherlock watched, canting his hips ever so slightly forward when John moved his head down, enjoying the tingling feeling in his testicles as John slowly, _maddeningly so_, worked him to his orgasm.

"Don't stop." Sherlock whispered moments later, feeling that John needed a bit of encouragement. John hummed with him in his mouth and Sherlock hissed, his hips thrusting forward. John's free hand splayed across his hip to keep his thrust shallow and not gag him.

When Sherlock was _finally, finally_ close to his own orgasm, he tugged John's hair to get his attention and whispered, "I'm close."

He felt John pause briefly before continuing…and Sherlock's mind blanked deliciously. He closed his eyes and reveled in the sensation of thinking of nothing at all, no deductions, no reasoning, just pure, beautiful, white noise.

Of course, it didn't last long- it never did- and when Sherlock opened his eyes he found John watching him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, an odd expression on his face.

"You…" Sherlock clamped his lips shut and looked away. No need to state the obvious and it was obvious what John had just done. "You didn't…um…you didn't have to do that."

John shrugged, still on his knees, and his eyes skittered away from Sherlock's, looking around the flat, looking anywhere but at Sherlock. Sherlock did not know what to say. Usually, after an encounter, he walked away, came back to the flat…but he was already at the flat and where he would walk to? An awkward silence ensued.

"Well." John awkwardly leveraged himself to his feet, still not looking at Sherlock.

He began walking away and Sherlock felt a small explosion of panic. Was John disappointed with what they had done? Disgusted? Was he now realizing that he was definitely straight? Had having sex with Sherlock been nothing more than an itch that, now scratched, was gone? He felt irrationally worried over this.

"Tea?" John asked over his shoulder, still not looking at Sherlock.

"Please."

The sounds of John making tea filtered into the sitting room as Sherlock fixed his clothes and fidgeted on the sofa. He bit his lips and rapidly deduced as John walked back into the living room. There was something wrong, he could tell. John was definitely disappointed about something.

When John handed him his mug he refused to let go until Sherlock looked up at him.

"Next time, we kiss first."

_Next time_. Sherlock smiled up at him.

"And _next time_ you keep your damn mouth _shut_ while I'm giving you head."

* * *

**AN: Please no comments about Sherlock and John's lack of safe sex. This will be brought up in the next chapter between the two. I am aware of safe sex and inform everyone to practice it. :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks for all the great support I have gotten for this fic! I am, as always, blown away by the number of people following and favoriting a story of mine and if I have not thanked you, I do so now. Thanks!**

**Enjoy! :)**

* * *

John knew it was immature, but he was a bit surprised the next day when no one looked at him and could immediately tell he had given a man a blow-job the previous night. He walked into the surgery with a little guilty expression, feeling as if everyone were staring, and certain that someone would look at him and proclaim, "John Watson! You sucked cock last night! I didn't know you were gay! You swallowed?! Really? How was it?"

The idea, John was certain, was just a side-effect of living with Sherlock who _could_ tell in an instant exactly what sexual acts, and more, John and his girlfriend had done the previous evening. John gritted his teeth when he remembered one memorable morning when Sherlock walked in, took the coffee John had prepared for himself, and stated boldly, "She faked it." Before walking back into the sitting room and turning on the telly. John had stood, frozen in anger and shame before sighing in resignation and making another cup of coffee. Sherlock had smirked as John entered the sitting room and calmly stated, "Two minutes? Not up to your usual stamina, John."

John had left the flat before he punched Sherlock.

When Sarah smiled at John and asked how his date with Veronica went, he wondered if she were implying something. Was that a hint? Could she tell? John, huffing out a breath, realized he was paranoid. It was not that he was embarrassed, not really (though Sherlock's comments had made him a bit hesitant to repeat the experience until he had done more research, arrogant prick), but it felt as if the earth beneath his feet had shifted slightly and he _felt_ different. Shaking his head, he got on with his day.

It was while he was lecturing a slouching teenager about safe sex and what his diagnosis meant that John's stomach suddenly swooped unpleasantly as he realized something- entirely belatedly and entirely too stupid of him to have missed. He should have known better, being a doctor, but had somehow forgotten in- what? The heat of the moment? That was always the excuse he heard from his patients and now he was guilty of the same damn thing. He shook his head as he continued his now less-than-stern lecture to the youth and sent them on their way.

He thought about confronting Sherlock- who should have thought of something like condoms, being a genius- and groaned. Now _that_ would be an awkward conversation to have before dinner. Still, it needed to be done and John berated himself when he thought that it was a conversation which should have taken place _before_ the actual sex. He had just…not been thinking and it had all happened so quickly: agreeing to the mad arrangement with Sherlock, consulting on the case, then Sherlock…in the hallway… It was hard for him to imagine Sherlock not thinking it through though…but surely Sherlock practiced safe sex, right? Surely he would not think matters such as condoms were trivial or boring? It said something about Sherlock that John was unsure, since this was also the man who classified breathing as "boring."

These thoughts plagued his mind the rest of the day until he arrived back at the flat, determined to face Sherlock. He paused in the doorway to the kitchen where Sherlock was seated at his microscope, gloved hands gently placing a slide covered in green ooze under the lens. He watched as Sherlock adjusted the eyepiece, checked and re-checked the image, then flicked a frowning glance in his direction.

"What?" he asked impatiently before lowering his eye to the lens.

"We didn't use condoms." John blurted, instantly turning red and wishing he had thought of a more tactful way to say it.

"We're both clean, though if we engage in sex with any other party we should wear condoms until being tested again." Sherlock said dismissively, his eyes now glued to his microscope.

"How do you know that? We haven't been tested-"

"I got the tests done a week ago."

John cocked his head and stared at Sherlock, waiting for more information, but none came. "How?"

"I acquired your blood and mine and took it to the appropriate authorities on such matters. The results are on my computer if you want to look."

"I didn't give you any blood…" John said, bewildered and obviously trying to remember if he had volunteered to give Sherlock blood in the last few weeks.

"You won't remember. You were sleeping at the time." Sherlock said dismissively.

"You took my blood while I slept?" John asked in dismay.

Sherlock did not repeat himself and John continued to stare at him in outrage, a dark frown marring his face.

"That's…that's…Sherlock, you can't do those sorts of things-"

"It was for your benefit as well, it is not as if I was conducting an experiment with your blood." Sherlock neglected to mention that the blood sample currently in the fridge was John's and he had been thinking of conducting experiments with it. _At the time_ _he had taken the sample_ though, he had not thought of doing so. If he had, it had been in the back of his mind and not the _main_ reason. So, _technically _and as far as John was concerned_,_ he was still telling the truth.

John did look very angry though. Sherlock made a mental note to quietly dispose of the blood when John was not looking so he would not find out.

"That's not the _point_, Sherlock! You should never have done it in the first place-"

"Because you would have agreed to do it if I had asked." Sherlock fired back sarcastically and watched as John shut his mouth and clenched his jaw. "I saved us both time and the necessity of using condoms. I know you do not like using them and I dislike the taste of latex in my mouth."

"It's an invasion of privacy." John said between gritted teeth, trying not to think of Sherlock sucking a latex covered erection. He did not even ask how Sherlock knew he disliked using condoms. Sherlock shrugged and turned back to his microscope.

"It's done. We're both clean."

He listened as John took a deep breath in through his nose and then sighed through his mouth. "Never do that again."

"Or what?" Sherlock could not stop himself from asking, swiveling away from his microscope and giving John his best insolent look. He watched, fascinated, as John's face darkened even further and the short army doctor took a threatening step forward.

"Or I will throw out every single goddamn experiment I can find in the flat and I won't care how important it is or how long you have been working on it. I'll fucking bin them all."

Sherlock's jaw dropped and he stared at John. "You're serious."

"Great fucking deduction, that."

Sherlock fidgeted in his chair and looked down at the rough wood of the table. He could tell John was serious and had no doubts he would carry out his threat. It was time for a little remorsefulness for the sake of his experiments. "I simply thought it would be in both our benefits-"

"_Don't_, Sherlock." John said drily, "Just don't do it again." He gave Sherlock a look before sighing and turning away to begin dinner. "Lasagna ok with you?"

"Not hungry."

"You're eating." John replied in a tone of voice that made Sherlock fear for his experiments and nod in silent agreement.

It was quite in the kitchen as John prepared the pasta and sauce and Sherlock applied a hissing solution to his green ooze and excitedly watched it turn blue. He made scrawling notes on a paper to the side while John watched out of the corner of his eye, nervous about having dangerous liquids near food preparation but not saying a word.

He was still thinking about Sherlock- _Sherlock Holmes_- actually having sex…and having had it with multiple people. Had they been experiments? Short flings? He had said girlfriends/boyfriends were not really his area so did that mean…What did that mean? John was morbidly curious and could not stop thinking about it. It was _really_ none of his business, he thought, glancing at Sherlock again. Except…well…no, it wasn't, he sternly told himself. They were not dating, they were not in a committed relationship. Sherlock had made it clear- friends with benefits and John was allowed to date whomever he wished. That did not mean Sherlock's sexual history was any of John's business. He tried to tell himself that, unsuccessfully.

"How…many people have you…uh…have you been with?" John heard himself asking, trying to sound nonchalant while he stirred the boiling pasta on the stove. He winced with his face turned away from Sherlock, knowing Sherlock would deduce him in a second.

"Irrelevant." Came the short and dismissive reply. John glanced back at Sherlock and frowned.

"I was just wondering-" he began defensively.

"You're curious, only natural considering that until three weeks ago you thought I was a virgin and or asexual and were therefore surprised when I _offered you gay sex over breakfast_." Sherlock glanced over at John, his lips quirked upward in a smirk and John laughed a bit. "However, my past sexual encounters have no bearing on this arrangement between us."

John cleared his throat and turned back to the pasta. "All right."

There was silence for a few minutes until Sherlock sighed dramatically and pushed away from his microscope.

"Men or women?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Men or women? You wished to know the number of people I have been sexually intimate with. Do you require an all-encompassing number or a number by gender?"

"You've been with both?"

Sherlock gave John an impatient look and made no reply.

"Uhh…I didn't think you wanted to tell me."

"You obviously wish to know-"

"That doesn't mean you _have_ to tell me, Sherlock-"

"All-encompassing number or by gender?"

John shrugged, rather wishing he had not asked but still very curious. "By gender."

"Women, 54. Men, 202."

Jesus. John just stared at Sherlock in confused shock.

"You've shagged 256 people?"

"I said I had been sexually intimate with that number of people. That does not mean the same sexual act took place with each one." Sherlock frowned at John. "I would remind you, Mr. Three Continents Watson, that you have something of a reputation as well."

John cleared his throat nervously. "Well…I mean…the army…."

"Speak up, John."

"Nothing." John blushed and turned back to cooking, trying to ignore Sherlock and not think of what he had just told him. He had thought he wanted to know- nope, turns out he was wrong. He had _definitely_ not wanted to know. Now, he could not stop imagining Sherlock shagging 202 men- wait, _201_, because obviously John was number 202. Nothing special. Just another number in a long list of numbers. John wondered if Sherlock could even remember their names or not. He felt slightly sick.

Christ, no wonder Sherlock had been so impatient with him last night. John was probably rubbish compared to…to…_201_ men who had all probably known what they were doing. John felt the tips of his ears burning and knew Sherlock was silently watching him. It just made his embarrassment worse.

"It bothers you." A statement, not a question.

"Nope. Doesn't bother me at all. Like you said, I have a reputation as well. I guess we're both something of tarts." John managed to say lightly, draining the pasta and trying to tamp down the emotions Sherlock's reveal had inspired.

Sherlock snorted and turned back to his experiment. "Speak for yourself, Three Continents."

* * *

It was after dinner when Sherlock suddenly pounced on John while he was flicking through the channels on telly. One minute, John was trying to find the late night news, and the next Sherlock was straddling his lap, his mouth wetly kissing John's neck and an insistent hand palming John's penis through his trousers.

"Sherlock- what?!" John managed to gasp before Sherlock drew away, his eyes heavy lidded and dark.

"I'm bored and you've been watching me the entire evening." He said. Obviously, this was supposed to mean they should have sex. Sherlock smirked knowingly and bent his head back to John's neck but John leaned away.

"Wait, wait, wait! I said we had to kiss first." He protested and watched as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Really, John, is it necessary?"

"You don't like snogging?" John asked, pulling further away by pressing his back against the sofa and Sherlock frowned. John was proving decidedly hard to get…surprising considering his reputation.

"I never understood why people would desire to place their faces so close together and inhale each other's bad breath and share saliva. One never knows where their partner's mouth has been, what it has been ingesting, nor how dirty it is until their tongue is forcing the information on you. I know you find it pleasurable but kissing does not enhance my sexual enjoyment."

Sherlock realized he had said something a "bit not good" from the way John was looking at him.

"You have…kissed people before…right?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course, John, and while some experiences were rather nice, it is not an act I require. If it is an act _you_ require, I can accommodate it I suppose. This _is_ a mutually beneficial arrangement."

"I don't want to do something you don't want…"

"I am more indifferent to the idea." Sherlock shrugged. "It is not a…a horrible thing."

John still looked hesitant and Sherlock grew impatient. He was bored and his mind was screaming to be calmed, soothed, appeased. He pressed his palm harder against John's half-hard erection and the shorter man gasped, his pupils dilating rapidly and his hips coming up off the sofa.

"Go on, then. Kiss me." Sherlock commanded, dropping his voice to a seductive purr and leaning closer. "Kiss me, John." He knew John liked the sound of his voice and any command given in such a tone would result in John's obedience.

John, nervously licked his lips, then leaned forward and pressed those lips to Sherlock's. Sherlock dutifully closed his eyes and allowed the kiss, thinking the lips pressing against his own were thin and a bit rough, from walking in the cold all day without proper protection, and dry but not unpleasant. Sherlock responded automatically to the kiss, making the appropriate motions when required and wondering how much longer John would want to kiss him. Not that it was unpleasant, just mainly a bit dull. There were other, better things he and John could be doing besides kissing- such as what they had done last night.

He opened his eyes to deduce how much longer John planned to kiss him in order to achieve maximum sexual enjoyment, only to find John's eyes already open. A jolt went through Sherlock's abdomen at being confronted with John's eyes, startling close to his own, and he gasped against John's lips. He jerked away, not liking the feeling.

"What?" John asked, his breathing a bit labored. Sherlock shook his head and pressed his lips together, trying to understand the roiling of his stomach.

"Do you want me to stop?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's fine." He cleared his throat. "Fine."

John looked at him, knowing something was wrong, but Sherlock distracted him by beginning to massage his penis, working him into full hardness and pulling John's hand forward to place it directly over his own cloth covered penis, encouraging John's hand to grasp it. John's eyes closed and he thrust his hips forward before reaching for Sherlock with his other hand, threading his fingers into the curls at the base of his neck and pulling him forward, pressing their lips together again. He tugged gently to tip Sherlock's head more to the side and parted his lips, slotting Sherlock's bottom lip between his own and sweeping his tongue quickly over it.

_Oh_.

Sherlock pulled away, John's fingers trailing out of his hair and down his neck. Goose bumps broke out on Sherlock's skin. His stomach was twisting itself in knots and he wondered if he were about to be sick.

"That's enough kissing." He declared before swooping down to latch onto John's neck, sucking hard enough to make John moan but not hard enough to leave a mark.

John's hands were fumbling with Sherlock's belt and fly while his hips thrust upwards into Sherlock's hand. He finally managed to gently extract Sherlock's cock from his pants and gave it a slow stroke. Sherlock went boneless atop him, resting his head on John's shoulder and closing his eyes, hissing out a strange sigh. John gave his cock another stroke and Sherlock's hips thrust forward slowly.

"Use this," Sherlock murmured, quickly extracting a bottle of lube from his pocket and John stared at it before taking it.

"You planned this well." He smiled, but Sherlock had already closed his eyes again and as John slicked up Sherlock's cock, watching the minute motions of his hips as he did so, he felt as if Sherlock were not really there. It was as if he had retreated into himself and was not even aware John was the one stroking his cock, making his hips jerk forward as he began to quicken the pace. It was a bit unsettling but John did not know how to break through. He began moving his hand up and down Sherlock's shaft, slowly at first, then building into a steady rhythm. At least this he could do well, John thought with a twist of his lips. He had lots of practice doing this.

John watched as Sherlock's mouth fell open in a soundless moan, fucking John's fist faster and faster and once again, the feeling that Sherlock didn't even notice him came to John. At the moment, it did not bother him as much as it probably should since he was watching Sherlock practically use his fist, Sherlock's hands steadying himself by gripping John's shoulders, his hips moving in a way that made John's mouth go dry. John bit his lip and used his other hand to palm his erection through his trousers, moaning at the sensation, before awkwardly pulling his own fly down and bringing his penis out, beginning to stroke it in time with Sherlock's thrusts. There was already enough pre-come to make the motions easy, and John leaned his head back, watching sweat break out on Sherlock's forehead as he got closer and closer to orgasm.

When Sherlock finally orgasmed he made no sound, only throwing back his head, neck stretched out, and an exquisite look of ecstasy on his face. His fingers dug into John's shoulder and then he was coming in short, rapid bursts onto John's fist.

Knowing Sherlock was feeling that because of him, watching him come undone- as much as Sherlock Holmes ever came undone, he supposed, John lost it. He moved his hand faster and faster, feeling the coiling heat building and then he was coming as well, hips jerking shakily, a stuttering moan tearing it's way from his mouth.

When Sherlock's eyes blinked open, bleary and dull with pleasure, John smiled and leaned up to brush his lips against Sherlock's. He heard the genius sharply inhale, his lips fluttering under his own and pulled away, smiling gently at him.

"You're fucking amazing." He whispered before kissing him again.

Sherlock pulled away, his eyebrows drawing together. "I didn't do anything." He motioned at John's softening cock and the come pooled on his lap, not all of it John's.

John shook his head. "Just watching you…It was fucking hot."

Sherlock pressed his lips together and moved away, handing John tissues to clean up with. His back was turned when he heard John chuckle and turned to find him shaking his head, a small smile playing about his lips as he tried to get himself clean.

"What?"

"Nothing…Just…"John shook his head again and smiled up at Sherlock. "Never expected to have another bloke's come on me. Odd experience, this." He grinned and Sherlock, after a beat, laughed with him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Many, many thanks to everyone who is supporting this story. I have not had the opportunity to respond to reviews for the past few days so please just know that I do read every single one and thank you! Please continue to read and review and let me know how I am doing. :) Thanks.**

* * *

John felt like an intruder in his own flat as he skulked around the doorway to the sitting room, checked the kitchen, then tiptoed down the hallway to Sherlock's room and eased the door open.

Empty.

He breathed a sigh of relief and quickly made his way back into the sitting room, grabbed his laptop and ran almost guiltily up to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He had heard Sherlock leave almost an hour ago but had waited that long, debating with himself over whether or not he could do this, arguing with himself and blushing like he were a teenage girl, before finally going downstairs and making sure Sherlock was really gone.

Now, John sank down on his bed and stared at the laptop as if it were an unexploded bomb in his lap. Deep breaths, Watson, you're being stupid. Teenage girl, remember? You don't want to act like that.

When the search engine loaded, John's mind blanked. What the hell was he supposed to type? How to suck cock? Blow-job tips? John blushed so hard he was afraid he might get a nosebleed. There was no one around but he still felt uncomfortable, as if the search engine were judging him and his life choices.

He drew in a deep breath, filling his cheeks with air, then blew it all out before typing.

It did not help that the first 5 websites were ladies magazines, proudly proclaiming tips on how to please "your man." He briefly buried his face in his hands, wondering exactly what decisions in life he had made in order to wind up at this particular point, before clicking on the first link.

Oh, dear fucking god, he couldn't do this.

Why did they have such corny euphemisms for cock? There was nothing he could take seriously as he scanned articles talking about man flutes, pickles, joysticks, rods, twins (though this was for balls…but, wow, really?), real estate, wiener whistles, and a banana split with nuts. He thought about sharing any of these with Sherlock and almost laughed out loud imagining the look on his posh face if John randomly called his cock a disco stick.

John took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He was a former soldier, a fucking _doctor_, for crying out loud! He should be able to read articles about giving oral sex and not blush or giggle like he was twelve. He needed to have a different mindset, he thought, as he loaded more articles. He needed to think about doing these things _to Sherlock_, not think about them in purely abstract terms.

This decision held more promise as he started reading an article that actually used the correct terms for their bits. He could feel himself getting hard imagining doing these things to Sherlock, picturing his face as he orgasmed, all because of John and what he was doing. Really, John thought, most of these tips were common sense. Making eye contact, showing "your man" that you were enjoying giving head, using your hands. Perhaps he just needed practice-

John jumped when he heard the front door slam. He stared, wide eyed, as he heard Sherlock's feet pounding up the stairs, then on the landing, then pounding up the second flight of stairs to John's room.

With a cold flash of horror, John realized he had not locked the door.

He slammed the lid of the laptop shut just as Sherlock threw open the door, his eyes immediately lighting on John. Whatever he had been about to say died on his lips as his eyes flicked from John's red face, to the laptop, over John's body, back to the laptop, then finally back to John.

"You were masturbating."

John's eyes bugged and he choked on air. He quickly threw the incriminating laptop to the side and stood. Sherlock's eyes automatically flicked to his crotch and John felt the blood rush back to his face when he could feel that he was still half-hard. "I wasn't. Really. Just…just using my computer. Research." Sherlock still looked unconvinced. He cleared his throat and decided to try distraction. "Did you need something?"

"Don't lie to me, John. It's simple to deduce. Flushed skin, wide eyes- shocked, dilated pupils- I can tell even from here-, perspiration, your _erection_, avoiding eye contact." Sherlock shifted from foot to foot, opened and closed his mouth, then glanced back at John. "Last night. I didn't satisfy you."

"Wh-at?" John asked, not helped by the fact that his voice broke and squeaked. Sherlock pressed his lips together and started walking towards John with a look on his face that made the blood pool in John's groin. He stopped when there was barely an inch between their bodies and looked hard at John, his eyes flicking between John's pupils. It was an intense stare, probing John's very mind and John realized something in a sudden flash which he assumed was much like Sherlock's sudden bursts of pure genius- he had a kink. A serious, fucked up kink. That kink was Sherlock giving him his absolute and undivided attention and he felt himself grow even harder in his trousers.

"I _really_ wasn't-" John was cut short when Sherlock lunged, pressing his lips harshly to John's and pushing him until his back hit the wall.

Sherlock had not been lying the previous night. He had kissed people before and, like everything else sexual he did, it was like a hurricane- all fast movement, too much pressure, and just overwhelming. John briefly felt as if he were suffocating before his hands came up, fingers carding through Sherlock's hair and tugging him back just a bit so he could direct the kiss.

He softened the kiss, turning it into something more erotic but no less heated. He felt Sherlock shudder against him and smiled before tugging his bottom lip with his teeth then pressing their lips together again. John ran his hands down Sherlock's back, jolting back to reality when he realized Sherlock was still wearing his coat and scarf.

"There was a reason you came up here? What was it?" he asked, his voice husky.

Sherlock paused and pulled away, blinking, seeming surprised before he recovered himself. "Case. There's a case." He seemed to be talking to himself as he continued to stare at John, this time in bewilderment. "There's a case." He said almost accusatorily at John.

"Ok…well…are we going or _staying_?" John asked, grinning mischievously though he already knew the answer. There was a case. Sherlock had been very specific that there would be no "benefits" when they were on a case. John had accepted that.

Sherlock did not respond but continued to stare at John, his brow furrowed. He finally snapped out of his reverie and turned away. "I'll tell you about it in the cab."

* * *

As they walked into the crime scene (run-down building generally catering to junkies looking for a cheap flat), John felt that everyone could tell he and Sherlock had been snogging like mad just thirty minutes ago. He felt as if he were wearing a large scarlet letter somewhere on his person and everyone were staring at it. Someone laughed as they walked in the building and John's head snapped around, trying to see who it was- but no one was looking at them. Paranoid, he was being paranoid. No one could tell. He mentally and physically shook himself, earning an odd look from Sherlock as they climbed the stairs to the flat.

"Took you long enough to get here, Freak."

Sherlock had been bent almost double studying the shabby carpeting but he jerked upright when Sally Donovan's lazy voice called out.

"I see your on again, off again relationship with Anderson is currently off. I suppose congratulations are in order."

"Sherlock." John murmured behind him in warning, watching as Donovan's mouth twisted in anger. Before she could respond, Lestrade strolled out of the flat in question, his face haggard and two day stubble on his chin.

"Sherlock. We need you in here." He seemed too tired to pretend he had the situation in hand and Sherlock's eyes narrowed, calculatingly.

Lestrade glanced at Donovan who made a disgusted noise and shook her head before walking away and Lestrade led Sherlock and John into the messy flat.

"Unknown female, middle aged, expensive clothes, jewelry, purse not stolen but no id. Doesn't live here. Tenants returned after a week's vacation in the Netherlands to find…this." Lestrade said as he led them through a cluttered sitting room and past a truly horrible looking kitchen, opening a battered wooden door to reveal a cramped bathroom with only a sink and a dirty tub with a brown ring round the middle. The tiles were cracked and discolored, the mirror over the sink was splintered, and the small floor space was covered by the body of a slightly overweight woman. Her brown hair was streaked with grey and her designer clothing looked very out of place on the dirty bathroom floor.

Sherlock paused just inside the door and assessed the scene. There was no space for him to even walk into the cramped little room- the body taking up almost the entire floor- and his eyes began flicking around, memorizing the entire sight, before he hoisted himself up to perch on the sink like an overlarge bird of prey.

"Hey- you can't do that- There could be evidence!" Lestrade cried from the doorway. Sherlock ignored him, rolling his eyes, and crouching on the sink, staring intently down at the dead woman. John hovered to the side, arms outstretched, ready to catch Sherlock if he overbalanced. It would be an all-time low for a crime scene if Sherlock fell on the body. He was not sure his friend could endure the humiliation after the numerous times he had tormented Anderson.

"I will need a blood sample in order to see what chemicals were in her system at the time of death-"

"You think it was drugs?" Lestrade interrupted, earning him a cold look from Sherlock.

"This entire building is known for catering to junkies. I found six needles embedded in the carpet on my way up here- surely you lot did not fail to miss those? No one, no matter how poor or desperate, would live here unless they were a junkie-"

"But the woman didn't live here. The tenants said-"

"They're lying. She did live here, though her name is not on the lease. Now, about that blood sample?"

* * *

Sherlock was annoyed. There was something about this case- it looked entirely too easy when laid out but there was something else…there was _something_ there if he could just calm his mind and concentrate. It was proving almost impossible, though, because his mind kept focusing on John. It was infuriating. He had spent half his life disciplining his body and mind- this should not be happening.

He never wanted sex during a case and now, as he applied his all-important blood sample to a slide at St. Bart's, all he could think about was John, who was currently chatting with Molly. It was highly annoying and kept distracting him, pulling his mind from the case and filling it with useless images. The easy accessibility of always having John in the flat to cater to him was slightly offset by the annoyance of John always being there and making Sherlock want him.

John said something to Molly and they both laughed, Molly reaching over to push at John's shoulder playfully.

"Shut _up_!" Sherlock snapped, frowning. Molly jumped and blushed a deep crimson while John turned to frown at Sherlock.

"S-Sorry." Molly stammered, fiddling with her hands. "Didn't mean to interrupt. Can I get you anything?"

"It would be most appreciated if you would take yourself elsewhere. I cannot think with the level of idiotic propensities in the room." Sherlock snapped and ignored John's disapproving look. He had work to do that was being hampered by their silly prattling and flirting.

Molly blushed even harder, glanced from John to Sherlock, opened and closed her mouth, looking very hurt, then turned on her heel and almost fled from the room.

Sherlock looked at John- who was fiercely glaring at him- out of the corner of his eye, remembering the way he had looked that afternoon in his bedroom, having been caught out masturbating. Sherlock had not thought he would find the idea erotic- why would he? John stimulating himself to orgasm- who cared? Except…the idea of John stretching out on his bed and wanking was firmly lodged in Sherlock's mind and he could not get. It. The. Fuck. Out.

He gritted his teeth and looked unseeingly at the blood beneath the lens, aware of John coming closer to him and leaning down.

"There's no reason to be rude. Molly's already having a rough day-"

"And I am trying to solve this case." Sherlock replied and looked over at John.

John licked his lips, running his tongue along first the bottom one, then both and Sherlock's mind helpfully presented him with the sensory memory of John's tongue swiping along his own lip from last night and the way his teeth had bitten his own only hours previously.

He was off his stool and kneeling on the floor before John in less than a second, his mouth pressing against John through his trousers, making his intentions very clear.

"Sherlock!" John hissed, his head whipping around to make sure they were completely alone in the lab before glaring in disbelief at the man on his knees before him. "You are _not_ doing this _here_! We're on a case-"

Sherlock didn't listen but jerked at John's zip and pulled his trousers down, his cock springing free. He wasted no time in engulfing it in his mouth and felt John jerk in surprise.

"Oh, shit! Sherlock- we're…someone…oh, fucking god- hell, fucking yes, Oh, god, Sherlock, don't- that's…ah! Oh, _fuuuck_."

John clutched the cold metal table behind him and stared in disbelief at his surroundings. Someone could walk in at any moment and catch them. They would see John, face flushed and totally shocked, gripping the table for dear life, but Sherlock was hidden by the tables. The idea that they _could_ get caught was like adding fuel to the fire and John's hips thrust forward and Sherlock rocked back on his heels and let him.

Sherlock's fingers were gripping his thighs and leaving marks but the slight pain only added to the pleasure of the moment as John let his head fall back and tried not to moan too loudly.

"A-about to-" John gasped and Sherlock pulled away, jerking him quickly and cupped his other hand to catch the come and prevent it from staining John's jeans- they were on a case, after all. John bit his lip to stop from shouting, his knuckles turning white as he held himself up and watched as Sherlock's long, elegant hand moved over his cock. He closed his eyes with an agonized groan, reaching his peak with a sharp burst of pleasure that was so intense it almost hurt.

As soon as it was over, Sherlock sprang to his feet and wiped his hand with a towel.

"There. _Now let me work_." He hissed, stalking back to his microscope and flinging himself into the chair.

"Um…ok." He heard John say in a stunned voice.

* * *

Eight hours later, John collapsed on the sofa with a tired groan and rubbed his eyes. Sherlock leaned against the doorway to the sitting room, staring vacantly into space with a contented smile on his face.

"I can't believe you connected that murder- murder and not _overdose_- to that bloody drug ring leader." John said, smiling at Sherlock. "Bloody brilliant."

Sherlock twitched and finally moved, hanging his coat on the doorframe and smiling tiredly at John. "At least we finally managed to catch him. That particular loose end has been annoying me."

John snorted and leaned his head back against the sofa, ready to doze off, when he felt Sherlock run his fingers through his hair. He blinked up in surprise at him, then smiled again.

"I think I'll start trying to deduce you." He declared and Sherlock's lips quirked up in a smirk.

"And what would you conclude, John?"

John cocked his head to the side and allowed his eyes to roam over Sherlock's face, then his body, then slowly slide back up to his face. "You're horny."

"_Really_, John." Sherlock huffed and John was pleased and surprised to see a small blush on Sherlock's cheeks. It was obvious he had not been expecting John to say that.

"Only natural, I suppose, having to watch me run about London. Bound to get you hot and bothered."

Sherlock's snort was decidedly derisive but John just grinned up at him.

"I want to take your clothes off first."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Removal of clothing is not necessary for manual stimulation, as I assume that is what you will wish to do. Not to mention the fact that you've seen me without clothing before."

"I like how you say manual stimulation. It makes it sound…dirty. Dirtier than simply giving you a hand-job." John grinned and Sherlock rolled his eyes again. Playful John was a bit funny but Sherlock did not want to encourage him.

"You don't have to take your clothes off if you don't want. Though you were pretty keen before I said yes to all this. Getting shy now?" John teased, standing up and leering at Sherlock. Sherlock laughed at him, shoving him away. John caught his hand and pulled him closer.

He reached up and tugged Sherlock down into a brief kiss, his other hand working on Sherlock's belt and fly. When he managed these, he broke the kiss by pushing Sherlock onto the sofa and laughed at the slightly surprised look on Sherlock's face. He knelt between his legs and pulled the trousers and pants down until they pooled under Sherlock's feet. It looked so damn erotic, the way Sherlock was still wearing his jacket and shirt, his penis erect and red, his cheeks slightly flushed and his eyes dark. John grinned at him and ran his hands up Sherlock's legs before stopping just short of his cock. Sherlock threw his head back and closed his eyes but John was not having him slip away from him this time.

"So…what is it I'm doing to you, Sherlock?" John asked in a playful manner as he gave Sherlock's cock light, teasing strokes.

Sherlock opened his eyes and huffed out a slight laugh. "Manual stimulation." He said, rolling the words around in his mouth and raised his head in time to watch John's eyes darken. The sight was incredibly erotic and Sherlock's cock stiffened further in John's hand.

"What would it be then if I sucked your cock?" John asked, reaching to the side table and popping the top on the lube bottle.

"Fellatio." Sherlock said, watching as John bit his lip to keep from grinning and poured lube onto his hand.

"How is it even _that_ sounds dirty?" John asked.

His fingers caressed, rubbing the lube over Sherlock's cock, and he closed his eyes to sink into the sensation, to stop thinking and just feel. The lube warmed quickly and the hand glided smoothly from base to tip, swirling the head before going back down, then up, sometimes adding a clever twitch of the wrist to make pleasure spike in Sherlock's testicles. It was minutes later, as John's thumb glided over the head that Sherlock's mind, which he could never turn fully off, made a startling deduction.

John was using his gun hand.

Sherlock's eyes flew open and his hips jerked forward on their own. He quickly stared down to where John's hand was still moving and found himself unable to look away. His heart was pounding erratically, breathing labored, and there was a funny feeling in his chest as his mind replayed images of John with his gun, cleaning it, grabbing it from Sherlock, _using_ it.

John had held a gun with that hand, the hand that was currently so skillfully stimulating him, and killed someone, his fingers curling around the cool metal, finger poised to pull the trigger- _nerves of steel_. His mind helpfully supplied the image of John, normally unassuming John Watson who wore jumpers like a doddering old grandfather, holding the gun, grimly staring at his target, before lining up his shot and pulling the trigger. His accuracy was deadly- _A kill shot over that distance, from that kind of a weapon, that's a crack shot you're looking for._ Sherlock gasped and thrust forward. _Holy fuck._

He watched with wide eyes as John's hand moved faster over his length, his other hand coming up to cup and roll his testicles and he couldn't hold back his groan, snapping his hips forward and making helpless little noises. He could feel John's eyes on his face, watching his reactions and he looked up, his own eyes colliding with John's- dark, lustful, wanting. Eyes that had seen death and calculated the precise angle to kill someone-

"Oh, _fuck_!" Sherlock yelled as he came in rapid bursts over John's fist, clenching his eyes closed and gripping the sofa cushions with shaking hands. He heard John gasp and peeled open his eyes in time to see him wiping something off his face with his sleeve as his hand kept moving, gently working Sherlock down from his orgasm.

"I guess you liked that then," John teased and Sherlock heard himself grunt an assent, unable to form a single coherent word.

It had been a very confusing day.


	8. Chapter 8

Once again, my sincere thanks go to everyone who is being so supportive of this fic and sticking with me even though I know my updating schedule is messed up. I've been sick lately and I can never write smut when I'm sick and feeling miserable. I usually don't do this because I know I will leave someone out but I want to extend thanks to **MapleleafCameo, Johnsarmylady, thebondgirl, Banbi-V, LadybugNixie, dumpling47, Medeia456, Space23Case, godiva33, and moriah93ohio **for always being awesome and leaving such wonderful and helpful reviews. You guys rock out loud! Your support for all my stories is just amazing.

As always, please read and review :) Thanks!

* * *

Sherlock settled on the sofa with John's laptop and smiled as he tried to figure out the new password. It was amusing how John always tried to block him out with some random password that Sherlock was able to deduce in minutes- sometimes seconds when he was being _really_ clever. This time, it took Sherlock two minutes and eighteen seconds to deduce John's new password was "Private" (which Sherlock thought was not very original and was a bit disappointed when he typed it in and was accepted). He shook off the dissatisfaction and immediately loaded John's browser.

John had tried covering his tracks by deleting his entire history and wiping all the cookies on his browser, but Sherlock had his ways and it was only a matter of minutes before he managed to recover the sites John had been looking at while masturbating. He was expecting, from past forays into John's porn viewing habits (_purely_ for research purposes and to make sure the man he was sharing a flat with was not harboring dangerous fantasies he might have been unable to deduce) images and videos of straight couples engaging in permutations of vanilla sex- which even Sherlock thought was too tame if one were going to go to the trouble of viewing pornography- and he clicked on the first window already prepared to view-

Tips on giving oral sex? Sherlock blinked at the laptop. Why had John been looking up oral sex tips? John was straight and the only person he would be doing that to would be…His mouth feel open and his mind jammed when he realized that John had been looking up tips…on how to please _him_. Please him giving fellatio. His throat was suddenly dry, his palms sweaty, and his cock definitely wondering what new information John had learned. His cunning John had not been pleasuring himself, he had been looking up tips on how to pleasure Sherlock.

Sherlock sat back on the sofa to process this information, fixing the idea in his Mind Palace on a very special wall entirely dedicated to John and his cleverness.

He scoffed and snorted as he looked through the websites John had visited. Many of them were useless and used idiotic terms for the male genitals. Was it really a turn-on to call a penis a wiener whistle? Sherlock felt his face morph into a look of disgust- that was very much an ugly image to have in one's head. He sincerely hoped John would not think calling him such names would be arousing, though he thought that John would rather think the names endlessly amusing. A sudden image of John grinning at him from between his legs as he called Sherlock's penis all manner of weird euphemisms flashed through his mind and he almost laughed.

A few of the sites were interesting and Sherlock bit his lip as he imagined John sitting on his bed, reading this particular article, his face flushed and cock getting hard. Sherlock read over the words detailing how to give "the best" blow job and imagined John reading those words, blushing- because that was what John did- and getting aroused reading it, thinking of doing the same to Sherlock.

Sherlock stopped reading and palmed his half-hard erection through his trousers, glancing at the clock. John would not be home from the surgery for hours yet. He growled in frustration and kept clicking through the websites, pausing on ones that showed promise and thinking of John reading them, gleaning tips and storing them away in his mind- tips to use on Sherlock, all for Sherlock. All for him.

"Nnngh," Sherlock moaned, palming himself again and throwing his head back to stare vacantly at the ceiling. His mind was helpfully supplying him with images of John- getting aroused by what he was reading, getting even more aroused when he thought of doing those things to Sherlock (because Sherlock knew John had been aroused when he had walked in on him yesterday), thinking of the moment when John would prove how much he had learned from those tips.

"Oh, god," Sherlock mouthed and rubbed himself harder through his trousers. He closed his eyes, biting his lip to keep from moaning and pictured John-

"Well, this is an interesting scenario."

Sherlock jumped and jerked his hand away from himself, slamming the lid of the laptop shut, his face flaming. He straightened on the sofa to glare at his brother. Mycroft leaned on his umbrella (though Sherlock refused to think he had been standing there long) and wore a knowing smirk. He seemed on the verge of laughing.

"I can see that I was interrupting what was surely a very _thorough_ research endeavor."

Sherlock felt his face flush and hated his brother in that moment with every fiber of his being. He cleared his throat and tried to control himself.

"What are you doing here?" He growled, managing to grasp at shreds of his dignity and composure in order to meet his brother's laughing eyes.

"I was merely in the neighborhood and thought I would stop by." He said lightly, glancing about the flat- deducing a week's worth of information in seconds- and his eyebrows rose before he settled himself in John's armchair. "Though I suppose I should have called first. I had no idea you would be so…_busy_."

Sherlock felt his blush flame into existence again. If anyone else had caught him, he would not have felt such acute embarrassment, but as the person was _Mycroft_…it made it a hundred times worse. He took a deep breath to gain his composure.

"I had no idea you were able to leave your office. Have they widened the doors? Eventually, you will not be able to leave unless it is by crane."

"I see the local, small-time drug ring has been occupying you for the better part of the month." Mycroft said smoothly, declining to rise to Sherlock's bait.

"I won't take a case from you."

"Dear brother, I do not have a case for you. Though I wish I did, as it is obvious you are languishing from boredom." Mycroft smirked when Sherlock flushed faintly but seemed to tire of the subject and twirled his umbrella before speaking again. "Mummy sends her love."

Sherlock snorted and stood, not worried of embarrassing himself as his arousal had long ebbed away.

"You may wish to call her and express regrets at being unable to attend the Christmas-"

"I am not calling her, Mycroft." Sherlock spat, turning his back on his brother and picking up his violin.

"Please, Sherlock, no violin torture today. I had to endure Mummy's screeching- I do not need to hear the Strad's."

Sherlock paused, his bow held aloft, before finally lowering it and his violin back into the case. He heard Mycroft sigh in relief behind him.

"What is the real reason you stopped by?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes as he sank into his armchair opposite his brother. Mycroft looked tired- had been working late almost every night this week, and more than once had slept in his office- on his desk, head resting on some sort of paperwork. He had gained almost ten pounds since Sherlock had last seen him- over a month ago- and he factored in stress as the culprit. His forehead was wrinkled and he was showing more signs of aging, but that was probably due to the pounding headache he currently had.

"You and the doctor seem to be…closer, as of late."

"We are none of your business."

"It's quite a good thing you have Doctor Watson to…_assist_ you, when you need him. Such a good, loyal, _helpful_ friend, the doctor. You're very lucky to have met him when you did, Sherlock. Very lucky to gain his friendship."

Mycroft paused and Sherlock raised his eyebrows, urging him to continue.

"I am simply wondering if you truly deem it _wise_ to become so involved with John? After all, I would hate to see you ruin the friendship you have over sex."

Sherlock's face did not betray his emotions, but inwardly he was frowning. First John, then Mycroft- why did they believe sex would ruin a friendship? Neither he nor John were kinky, or longed to do gross things to the other, they each gained pleasure from their encounters, and were both happy with the arrangement. Everything was going so well between them. There had only been awkwardness initially but they had overcome that and Sherlock was very happy with their arrangement. They were obviously sexually compatible, John enjoyed what they did and was comfortable doing it with Sherlock (he was even looking up tips and that thought still cheered Sherlock), and Sherlock was no longer forced to go out and mingle with people. He had John. They were friends, they were shagging, they were happy. Simple.

"As always, your opinions are not needed nor are they wanted." Sherlock said and Mycroft frowned at him, glancing at his umbrella. "There is no reason John and I will not continue to be friends, even with our current arrangement."

"John Watson-"

"Is none of your business, nor is our arrangement your business either. I am not asking your blessing." Sherlock snarled.

Mycroft stared at him and shook his head. "Sherlock, what I think you have failed to realize-"

"I have failed to realize nothing." Sherlock said, standing and picking up his violin, no longer caring if Mycroft were not feeling well. Damn his head and damn him. He was not a child to be lectured to. Sherlock briefly wondered if Mycroft would want to give him the safe sex lecture and filed that thought away to share later with John- who he knew would get an appalled laugh out of it.

Mycroft rose and stared at his brother's stiff, angry back as the first horrible screeching noises of the violin began. He had received a rather nasty shock when his CCTV footage had given him a bird's eye view of Sherlock on his knees in the lab at St. Bart's, his head busily working at John Watson's crotch. There were some things a brother should not have to see but the image was burned into his retinas and Mycroft could not scrub it out. Usually, Sherlock was much more…discreet with his liaisons, or at least checked to make sure no cameras were around to record his actions. It was obvious Sherlock still thought Mycroft believed him to be a virgin, but Mycroft had known from the start about Sherlock's first sexual encounter, and he knew Sherlock engaged in casual sex. He was Mycroft Holmes, not an idiot.

He knew this would end badly, what his brother was doing with John, and he had meant to at least put Sherlock on his guard if he could not warn him off completely. John Watson was more emotionally mature than his brother and was capable of having long-term relationships with women, he _wanted_ meaningful relationships. Mycroft knew it was entirely possible John could have such a relationship, such a _desire_ to have a relationship, with Sherlock- and he also knew that Sherlock would probably not reciprocate such a feeling.

Mycroft saw heartbreak for John and confusion and misery for Sherlock at the end of this, and he sighed as he made his way back down the stairs of 221B.

* * *

Sherlock was still in a bad mood and playing the violin when John returned to the flat. John deduced (Holmes men were not the only ones who could deduce) that Mycroft had paid a visit earlier in the day- nothing else could put Sherlock in such a bad mood so quickly- and he shook his head as he started dinner. He wished the brothers could get along, or at least keep as far a distance from the other as possible, for his own sanity as well as his hearing. The sounds Sherlock was creating with that beautiful violin put John's teeth on edge.

He was ignored when he tried to get Sherlock to eat and John let the matter rest, deciding to choose battles he actually had a chance of winning. He ate in the kitchen, trying to block out the noise of the violin and cursing Mycroft for putting him in this situation. Finally, much to John's relief, the music morphed into something pleasant, a bit dark and foreboding, but much better than the shrieking of the strings from earlier. John smiled as he washed his dishes and looked forward to being able to sit down and watch telly, without having holes bored into his eardrums by the violin.

His tentative good mood lasted until he saw what was sitting in his armchair.

Sherlock had purposefully left John's laptop in his chair, still on, with one of the more promising websites pulled up. Sherlock stopped playing to watch a blush crawl up John's neck as he debated with himself what to do and say. Finally, John took a deep breath and pushed the lid shut, the click sounding somewhat ominous in the sudden quite of the room.

"You hacked my laptop?" John asked, knowing what Sherlock had seen and wondering how much ribbing he would get for his efforts. There was a reason he had wanted to keep this from Sherlock.

"Obviously. It wasn't that difficult." Sherlock shrugged, smirking, and enjoying the flash of anger on John's face before he laughed a bit, scrubbing his face with his hands as if that would take the embarrassment away.

"Right. Well..." he cleared his throat, clearly at a loss as to what to say. Sherlock knew, though. He had been thinking of it all day.

"Want to show me what you learned?" he murmured, and watched as John's eyes darkened. His eyes flicked up and down Sherlock's body and the embarrassment melted away as he licked his lips, smiling cockily.

"Sherlock Holmes…are you chatting me up?"

* * *

When John knelt in front of him, Sherlock was already hard, his penis leaking pre-come, his mind exploding with information and images and fantasies. His breathing was coming in short pants, his hands were fisted at his sides, and anticipation was making him excited and jittery. The muscles in his thighs jumped when John's hands slid along them, then raked his fingernails lightly back down, leaving slow-forming red marks that held Sherlock's wide-eyed fascination.

There wasn't a thought in Sherlock's mind to not watch this time as John glanced at him before flattening his tongue and licking a line all the way up Sherlock's cock. It wasn't erotic, was more tame than anything, but Sherlock watched the motion with his mouth open, pupils blown. John swirled his tongue around the head before licking another line up, repeating the motion, and licking the head again, teasing, until Sherlock canted his hips forward, suddenly aching to be in John's mouth and feel the heat and wetness all around him. He remembered everything about the previous time John had done this but this time was completely different. There was an eagerness to watch, to remember John's motions- there was an excitement that had not been present before and it made Sherlock almost desperate.

When John took the tip of him in his mouth, Sherlock groaned and carded his fingers through John's short hair, not gripping but slowly running the hair through his fingers. Clean, short, military cut, blonde with hints of grey, not thinning but full and thick. It was thick enough to grip in his fingers and keep John's head where he wanted it, make John take more of him in his mouth- but Sherlock relaxed his grip before he acted on the thought. He did not want John to get angry and stop.

As John slowly took more of Sherlock's length in his mouth, he bobbed up before pushing back down and then repeated the action, each time taking more and more. Sherlock watched in fascination as John's lips stretched over his skin. John hummed and did a clever little move with his tongue.

"Nnnng," Sherlock groaned, thrusting his hips forward and felt John laugh around his penis, the vibrations doing odd sensations, before bobbing his head down, taking almost his whole length into his mouth, until Sherlock felt him bump against the back of his throat. John's mouth felt amazing- how had he not realized this before? Obviously John had learned from those websites and those tips had been worthwhile.

John hollowed his cheeks and slowly sucked back on Sherlock's cock, running his tongue along the underside as he went. He began a steady but slow rhythm, taking as much of Sherlock's length as he could, sucking, then going back down, sometimes adding a swirl of his tongue, other times pulling off completely and licking from base to tip before applying himself again. After a few minutes, John had sped up and had a consistent rhythm, and added both hands- one firm at the base and moving in tandem with his mouth, the other cupping and rolling Sherlock's testicles, eliciting bitten off moans and curses from the consulting detective.

Sherlock's mind was firing at rapid speed. He was in John Watson's mouth- the mouth that had called him _brilliant_, _incredible_, _amazing, fantastic_. Sherlock could remember the exact inflection of how John said his name- _Sherlock_. It was different when he was angry versus when he and Sherlock were on a case, or laughing inappropriately, or sitting in the flat doing nothing. Obviously, John could not say his name now, but the memory of him saying it was like a ghost along Sherlock's skin. He arched, his spine bowing, and John pulled back slightly, his eyes looking up at Sherlock- and that brought back even more memories- John's eyes staring at him in wonder, in awe, amazed at his deductions, alight from the chase, worried, scared, angry- oh, how much he loved angry John. Angry John was sexy- was he sexy? Why was angry John sexy? Sherlock thought it may have something to do with the fact that he was dangerous-

"_Fuck_," Sherlock choked, gripping the sofa beneath him until his knuckles turned white. He stared with wide eyes at John who rolled his eyes up to look at him- those eyes that darkened when he looked at Sherlock, darkened in desire and lust and _want_.

Sherlock was suddenly coming, his orgasm taking him by surprise, unable to warn John who choked and pulled back, his hand still steadily working Sherlock through his release.

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the sofa, trying to control his breathing and figure out what the fuck had just happened. His hands were shaking and his stomach was jumping, feeling as if it were tied up in knots. He opened his eyes and John smiled at him. He leaned up to kiss Sherlock's forehead almost chastely, sweetly and Sherlock gripped John's arms and closed his eyes, trying to make sense of what he was feeling, _feeling_. It was not pleasant. It was foreign and difficult, and strange and he did not like it. Did he? Did he like feeling this way? It was…oddly euphoric. He wanted to know more.

In an impulsive move, Sherlock pulled John's head down and kissed him, plunging his tongue past John's closed lips and sweeping around his mouth, tasting himself as he stroked his tongue along the roof of John's mouth. John moaned and angled his head, giving Sherlock more access, allowing him to continue his exploration. Sherlock had never particularly liked kissing people. The idea of where his partner's mouth had been before he was pressing his own against it was likely to kill any pleasurable feelings about the act. With John however…it was different. Why? Why was it making him fidgety and feel as if he were able to crawl out of his skin?

He pulled away, his breathing still coming too hard, to find John smiling at him, a bit dazed looking, and he could feel his erection pressing against his leg.

"Not so indifferent to snogging now?" John teased, brushing his lips, then his tongue, along Sherlock's cupid's bow.

"I can see where it has its merits." Sherlock replied, feeling his voice tremble just a bit and John must have heard it too because he drew back.

"Are you ok?"

"Of course." Sherlock said, frowning and pulling himself together. He was being stupid and oddly sentimental. He cleared his throat and pulled away from John, dropping his hands and blanking his face, reining his emotions in and under his control to be analyzed at a later date. "Do you require reciprocation?" he asked, trying not to sound too eager as he reached for the band of John's jeans, ready to watch John fall apart in his hands while he was still riding this wave of odd sensations.

John stopped him, his tanned hands coming up to grip Sherlock's and moved them away from their goal. Sherlock looked up at him questioningly and John's eyes reflected some emotion Sherlock did not understand before it was gone, quick as lightning and if Sherlock had blinked he would have missed it.

John sighed and shook his head. "No…no, I'm fine." He pulled away and stood, running his hands down the sides of his jeans awkwardly before walking away.

"I'm just going to turn in early. Night, Sherlock." John said, very offhandedly but Sherlock heard the hollowness in his voice and felt as if he had done something wrong- John was avoiding eye contact, face was set, shoulders held stiffly, but he was trying to pretend as if everything were fine. What had he said that was so terrible?

John jogged up the stairs and Sherlock watched him go, an odd feeling in his chest.


	9. Chapter 9

**This is something of a bridging chapter between the events in Chapter 8 and what will happen in Chapter 10. Full-on sexytimes in Chapter 10 (how could we get any more full on? *shakes head*). There should be another two or three chapters left in this series and I thank you all for sticking with me. Please, as always, read and review. Enjoy! :)**

* * *

It had been a fantastic month for Sherlock, one of the best he could ever remember. Lestrade had provided an influx of difficult and interesting cases to solve, one of which involved a decades old murder that linked to a present day homicide. This subsequently led Sherlock and John on a four day chase across London, searching for clues and tracking down the murderer. That particular case had been exciting and stimulating for a number of reasons, but it was the last day that had really earned the case a special place in Sherlock's mind.

Sherlock had already been manic, high on the exhilaration of the case, positively vibrating with energy when he and John stopped back at Baker Street to arm themselves for the takedown of the suspect. Sherlock had been impatiently waiting at the top of the stairs when John emerged from his room, _fondling_ his gun as he loaded it, checking and re-checking, making sure the safety was on, and Sherlock had gotten hard. He had gasped at the sudden arousal and flushed, pulling his coat around his body to hide his erection. John had acted as if nothing were wrong- not noticing Sherlock's quickened pulse or flushed cheeks, too excited about the case to notice his flatmate was seriously debating flinging said case aside and grabbing John and shagging him in the hallway.

Sherlock had managed, with an alarmingly difficult effort, to turn away and clatter down the stairs, throwing himself and his mind back into the case. The distraction of John and his gun had been completely forgotten as Sherlock led them to the location of the murderer and he and John were forced to hunker down and engage in a firefight with the criminal who refused to be taken in. Or well, _John_ engaged in the firefight while _Sherlock_ lay on his stomach and calmly texted Lestrade their location while calling out instructions for John which he ignored as he was currently trying to "save their arses, Sherlock, so shut the hell up!"

When Lestrade and his team arrived and began making arrests and leveling charges, John had quickly stuffed his gun into the back of his jeans- making sure the safety was on so he would not shoot his buttocks off. He thought, with a wry smile, that Mad-Eye Moody would be proud. He had turned to Sherlock, expecting to see the devil-may-care grin, his blue eyes shining from the excitement of the case, laughing his deep baritone laugh. Sherlock, however, was staring at John in a very odd way, his breathing coming hard, his cheeks flushed, and he was repetitively flexing his hands at his sides.

"Sherlock, what-?" John had not managed to finish his sentence before Sherlock suddenly grabbed John's hand and brought it to his face, running his nose along John's palm and inhaling deeply, closing his eyes as if in bliss. John's breath caught as Sherlock's eyes opened, pupils blown wide.

"_John_," he said, his voice so low it was almost guttural and tugged John's hand down his cheek and across his neck. John swallowed and forgot about the police around them, forgot about the criminal shouting obscenities as he was read his rights, forgot about their near-death experience only minutes before. All he was focused on was Sherlock and the way he was now rubbing his hand down his chest and lower, towards his trousers where- John whined- there was a sizable bulge.

"We have to go. _Now_." Sherlock said and began quickly walking away from the crime scene, gripping John's hand in his and almost dragging him behind.

"Sherlock- I've got questions-" Lestrade began, striding towards them frantically, unsure what the hell had just happened. There were bullet holes all around the room and he _thought_ he had seen John Watson with a gun-

"Later!" Sherlock yelled, not letting go of John and hailing a cab. He pushed John into the back and slammed the door.

As soon as the cab pulled away from the curb he was all over John, pulling him into his lap, kissing, running his hands everywhere and John was powerless to do anything except moan and kiss back. They always had some type of sex after a case but this was far different from the other times. Usually, they made it home before anything happened and even then it was sometimes slow and lazy, not heated and desperate. As Sherlock thrust his tongue repeatedly into John's mouth, he heard the cabbie grumble.

"Oi, you two! I'll put you out right here if you don't cut that out! You're not getting off in the back of my cab!"

"So sorry- _Sherlock_!" John was blushing and aroused and only half-heartedly trying to fend Sherlock off who ignored the cabbie and attached himself to John's left ear.

He managed to push himself off Sherlock's lap and was faced with a glaring consulting detective.

"_Behave_." John gasped, nodding to the cabbie who was glaring at them in the rearview mirror. Sherlock opened his mouth to argue and John, thinking quickly, stealthily placed his hand- his gun hand, he had realized, Sherlock was getting off on his gun hand- over the bulge in Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock hissed and pressed himself back into the seat, closing his eyes, the fight going out of him, and John squeezed.

"Behave." He repeated, furtively beginning to stroke and squeeze Sherlock's erection through his trousers as the cab navigated traffic.

When the cab stopped outside the flat, Sherlock flung himself from the backseat and John threw money at the driver and was right behind him. They banged into 221B, the door bouncing off the wall and Sherlock found himself pressed against the wall for a change instead of John. Their kisses were frantic, desperate, John getting off on the excitement and adrenaline of the case, Sherlock getting off on John's hand that still smelled of metal, gunpowder, and the oil John used to clean it. John was pressing against him, their hips unable to line up due to their height difference, grinding himself against Sherlock nevertheless, but Sherlock was not interested in frottage. He was interested in something far better.

He managed to disengage from his short blogger who had firmly attached himself to his tall frame and grabbed John's hand, pulling it towards the band of his trousers and John- fantastic, brilliant, excellent John- understood what he wanted. He thrust his hand- his wonderful gun hand- down Sherlock's pants and roughly stroked him.

Sherlock threw his head back with a groan and knew he would not last long. He was already hard and throbbing, pre-come leaking generously from his tip. He could not stay still and he bucked up into John's hand, his fingers coming up to dig into John's arms, and he snapped his hips in time with John's strokes.

"_Hnng_…_John_…ah, yes, faster- oh, god, your….your _hand_…oh, god-"Sherlock could vaguely hear himself moaning and shouting at John all sorts of embarrassing and explicit things he never would have uttered in ordinary circumstances but he was beyond the point of even remotely caring. All he cared about was John's hand wrapped around his cock and stroking him closer and closer to orgasm.

"Oh, fuck, Sherlock," he heard John choke and opened his eyes to see John's flushed and aroused face inches from his own. He closed the distance and kissed him. John turned the kiss into something hard, biting at Sherlock's lips and tugging roughly and it was that which sent Sherlock gloriously over the edge. He shouted something he was sure Mrs. Hudson would never want to hear and his fingers dug into John's arms so hard he heard him hiss in pain- and that just enhanced the already fantastic orgasm. His hips thrust through the aftershocks of his orgasm as he moaned variations of John's name and whispered to a god he did not believe in.

Long minutes later, Sherlock blinked his eyes open to find John, his own eyes closed, still pressed hard against his thigh. Sherlock pushed the shorter man against the opposite wall and fluidly knelt in the same movement.

It did not take long before John was frantically warning him he was about to orgasm. Sherlock still pulled away and sat on his ankles and watched as John's penis twitched and shot come in long ropes. When John's hips had stopped shaking, Sherlock eyed the tip of his penis, which still had the smallest bit of ejaculate covering it and looked up at John who was staring down at him, his pupils blown. Sherlock licked his lips and took the tip in his mouth, swirling his tongue over the head.

"_Oh_, _Jesus_," John whispered, his hips thrusting forward, and Sherlock pulled away and smirked up at him. When John pulled him up to kiss him, it was sweet and shy, a total reversal from earlier, and the way John's fingers traced his face was almost…tender. Despite the amazing orgasm that had cleared his head, Sherlock had been left feeling uneasy for days afterwards, trying to figure that particular kiss out.

There had been others cases after that one, less exciting but nevertheless mentally stimulating, and Sherlock had danced, solving puzzle after puzzle, with John by his side. Even when the spate of cases had died down, Molly delivered (after a few well-placed compliments about her new, _hideous_ cat jumper) with various diseased livers that Sherlock could experiment on. His mind would be occupied with these for at _least_ a few days and he was almost giddy with excitement as he put on his safety goggles and began his first experiment.

* * *

It had been the longest month John could ever remember. Not that he was complaining, mind, because he loved the adrenaline and excitement of a case almost as much as Sherlock did, though for different reasons. All the chasing and the dodging bullets and patching Sherlock up when he was hurt began to wear on him after going at it for a solid month straight and he was ready for some rest. There had been cases and pursuits, clues and dead ends, Sherlock yelling out deductions and John being left behind, danger and shagging. Oh, god, the shagging.

During the excitement of the cases, John was having too much fun to think and analyze, but when everything died down, his mind finally began to speak up. It was then he could no longer deny what he had been pushing to the very back of his mind and hoping to bury there and forget about. He was in love with Sherlock- very, very much in love with Sherlock and it was just as wonderful and exhilarating and horrible and painful as he had feared.

It had happened sometime between agreeing to Sherlock's surprising plan and the night Sherlock had revealed he had hacked his laptop. While Sherlock was coming down from his orgasm, his eyes closed and head thrown back, at that moment, John had felt it, the overwhelming, joyous feeling that brought a stupid smile to his face and he had realized, with a sudden jolt, he was in love. It wasn't a big surprise- he had sort of been expecting to fall but _really_ hoping he wouldn't- but it just…fit. It made sense. John loved Sherlock. Perfect. John had risen up and kissed Sherlock's forehead, afraid to do anything else because this was Sherlock, after all, and he could deduce anything, and had been so surprised when Sherlock had clung to him and kissed him back. It had been perfect, so damn perfect…until Sherlock had become cold and started talking about reciprocation. It was then John had come back to reality with jarring clarity.

It was reciprocation, their relationship. Tit for tat, you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours- or you suck my dick, I'll suck yours, in their case. He was an idiot to think that his and Sherlock's shagging was anything more than that, that it could ever be more than that. John brutally told himself that he was nothing special- just number 202 in a long line of people Sherlock had slept with. Once Sherlock got bored of shagging him (and he would, John would not fool himself into thinking that he could hold Sherlock's attention for long) Sherlock would move on to number 203. Sherlock had made it clear that this was nothing exclusive, had almost encouraged John to continue to date and sleep with other people.

John had had to leave the room before he made a fool of himself. What would he have told Sherlock anyway? Glad you enjoyed the header and oh, by the way, I'm in love with you. Fancy starting a relationship with me? Only I know you don't want to so I'm just making an idiot of myself. Goodnight.

John knew that, yes okay, he was a _bit_ special. After all he was Sherlock's only friend, but there was no _more_. It was just _sex_ to Sherlock and he made that abundantly clear time and time again. When not shagging each other (and John _loved_ the shagging, of course) there was distance between them. They were still best friends but it was not romantic. There were no cuddles on the sofa, no meals eaten together, no kisses stolen as they passed, or lingering touches. They were separate entities. John. Sherlock. Friends. Nothing else. Nothing would come of him and Sherlock shagging. John needed to accept that and move on.

It was hard though. It was painful and John knew he only had himself to blame. He had known this would happen when he agreed…and he still had done it. Idiot.

It was when all this was on his mind that Mike Stamford suggested John meet a colleague of his, Debra, for drinks one night. Mike had a penchant for setting people up, fancying himself something of a matchmaker, but John had never agreed before, not entirely trusting Mike's judgment when it came to women. After briefly debating though, John accepted. Sherlock had basically encouraged him to continue dating, after all, and it was better than mooning about the flat watching Sherlock conduct grisly experiments with disgusting livers and depressing himself with his own bloody thoughts.

* * *

Sherlock barely glanced at John as he moved about the kitchen, placing used mugs and plates in the sink and tidying up around Sherlock's chemicals, but the brief eye flick told him all he needed to know: freshly showered, hair combed, nice shirt and tie, his "good" shoes (though Sherlock did not think John actually knew the definition of "good shoes"), shirt tucked into pressed trousers. Sherlock's eyes turned back to the liver he had been carefully dissecting and John left the kitchen, jogging back upstairs.

It was when he heard John come back downstairs, keys jingling, that Sherlock's mind made the leap of _why_ John was dressed up and ready to go out: _John was going on a date_. Sherlock's fingers stilled, still clutching tweezers and a pipette, as he connected this information and felt suddenly sick to his stomach.

"Sherlock, I'll be back later. Try not to destroy the kitchen, all right?" John called nonchalantly from the sitting room and Sherlock stared down at his experiment, suddenly losing his zeal for it.

John had a date.

So what? That was fine. After all, Sherlock had _told_ John that he could continue to date whomever he wished when they first entered this arrangement. John had apparently decided to take him at his word. As he should, because Sherlock had meant it- _still_ meant it. That was fine. It _was_ _fine_. Sherlock cleared his throat and frowned at his experiment. He felt as if he were suffocating, which was odd because only moments before he had been fine, in good health and able to breathe properly without feeling as if something heavy and painful were sitting on his chest. Had he somehow accidentally released one of his chemicals into the air? Sherlock quickly checked but all his bottles were capped or stoppered and nothing was amiss.

Why then was he feeling so odd? Sherlock felt flushed and his heart rate was elevated, his palms damp as if he were what- scared? Nervous? Impossible, he felt none of those things. Perhaps he was angry. Yes, he was probably angry because John was leaving to go on a date with some idiotic female when he, Sherlock, needed John _here_. He was bored. Sherlock's mind was leaping from one thought to the next and he made a concerted effort to stop but it was hard as he was fidgety and restless.

"I'm bored, John." Sherlock announced , standing from the table and stalking into the sitting room. He watched as John looked up at him from where he was powering down his laptop. He frowned, recognizing Sherlock's tone of voice, and his eyes raked down Sherlock's pajama clad body. He frowned even more when he realized what Sherlock was driving at.

"I have a date." John turned his eyes back to his laptop and shut the lid with finality.

Sherlock stalked towards him, his experiment left to ooze on the table, entirely forgotten.

"And I need you_. I'm bored_."

"You were just doing an experiment in the kitchen, Sherlock, you're not bored. I know Molly gave you at least three different livers in various stages- and even if you _were_ bored, I have a date. Entertain yourself."

"I want _you_." Sherlock said, dropping his tone of voice in the way he knew John liked. He was rewarded by both dilated pupils and John's aroused/annoyed face. It was a rather endearing face for John to have and one Sherlock felt was reserved especially for him.

"I'm not…not a…a _sex toy_ you can just bring out and have your way with whenever you're bored." John said, shaking his head and pressing his lips together.

Sherlock was impressed John had managed to say such a thing with only minimal blushing.

"I'm leaving, Sherlock. I'm already running late as it is. Just…just go have fun with your experiments and I'll be back later. All right?"

"I'm bored." Sherlock repeated stubbornly, crossing his arms, a strange feeling rising up in his chest as he realized John was rejecting him to go meet with some useless female.

"I'm going, Sherlock." John, however, made no move to leave and Sherlock made no move to back down.

They stared at each other across the sitting room, having a silent battle of wills. John stood upright, his jaw clenched, trying to force Sherlock to go back to the kitchen and continue his experiments. Sherlock's eyes flicked between John's, trying to decide how to keep John in the flat with him and away from his date. While he debated, John sighed, his shoulders dropped, and he began walking past Sherlock to the door.

Sherlock made a quick decision- his hand shot out and he tugged John, spinning him around and artlessly pressed their lips together. He felt John struggle against him, trying to pull away, before Sherlock swiped his tongue along the seam of John's closed lips. John gasped beneath him, his lips parting, and Sherlock took the initiative to sweep his tongue into John's mouth. John moaned and his warm hands splayed out on Sherlock's back, pulling him closer. He responded enthusiastically to the kiss, tangling his tongue with Sherlock's, causing him to groan in response.

Over a month after their first kiss, Sherlock was still trying to figure out why it was he liked kissing John so much. He supposed it had to do with familiarity. He knew John. He also knew that John kept himself clean and well-groomed and did not do disgusting things with his mouth. When he kissed John, he usually tasted of tea and biscuits, a harmless taste and one that was starting to become rather _erotic_ the more Sherlock kissed him. It probably had to do with the way John responded to him, as well. He was not sloppy and pushy, poking his tongue about Sherlock's mouth in odd ways. John was a good kisser, Sherlock decided, as John's aforementioned tongue delicately licked the sensitive roof of his mouth, sending delicious shivers down his spine.

Sherlock also liked the proximity, feeling John's heavy exhales against his cheek as they kissed, able to gauge the shorter man's arousal by this. There was also variety to their kissing. John did not attack his lips all the time- though Sherlock did love it when John did so. Sometimes, their kisses were slow and gentle, slowly ramping up until John was biting at Sherlock's lips and doing all manner of naughty things with his tongue that Sherlock delightedly allowed to happen.

Yes, there were many reasons Sherlock liked kissing John.

"Sh-Sherlock…I have a date." John murmured, pulling away. His eyes narrowed and trained on Sherlock's, but he saw something there he obviously liked because he moaned and fell back into the kiss. He moved his hands from Sherlock's back to skim along his hips, before grabbing his arse and pulling Sherlock into his already prominent erection.

_Who cares about your bloody date?_ Sherlock thought, grinding against John and reveling in his gasps and moans like they were small triumphs.

"I'm so bored, John." Sherlock whispered, moving his lips to John's neck- which he had long ago deduced was one of the most sensitive places on John's body- and sucked and bit until there was a mark, high on his neck and just below his ear- that way, even if John _did_ leave for his date- which Sherlock decided was still a small possibility- his date would know exactly what John had been doing only moments before he met her.

"_Sherlock_." John's voice was unsteady and breathy and the probability that he was still going on his date dropped as he rolled his head back, exposing more of his throat to Sherlock, who smiled before applying his lips accordingly. He bit down hard on the side of John's neck and John gave a choked cry, rocking his erection into Sherlock repeatedly, riding out the waves of pleasure Sherlock was exciting.

Sherlock smirked, his expression hidden in the bend of John's neck, now certain John would not be leaving.

Victory.

He pulled away and began kissing John again, guiding him back toward the sofa.

"Wait, wait, I need to call Debra and tell her-"

"I think she'll get the message," Sherlock growled , angry that John could still think about the insipid female when he was kissing him. He did not care if the stupid woman sat wherever the hell they had been planning to meet the entire night. She would not be getting John- he would. The thought had him licking his lips in anticipation.

"_Wait_- Sherlock!" John protested, pulling away and Sherlock frowned. He had thought he had him. John's breathing was heavy and his cheeks were red, his lips even redder and swollen. The marks on his neck were turning a brilliant shade of purple and scarlet.

Sherlock felt a certain pride as he looked at them.

"_What_?" he asked impatiently.

"You need to take your goggles off first." John said, grinning, tapping the front of Sherlock's plastic safety goggles with his fingernail.

"What for?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Thanks, as always, to everyone who is being so lovely and supportive with this story. I have some sad news- my laptop is currently in it's death throes (I am posting this as quickly as I can before it chokes and dies on me) and I will not be able to post again until at least next Tuesday. I will still be around and about FF on my Kindle Fire but I won't be able to write or post until I buy a new computer, which should hopefully be this weekend. I wanted to let everyone know that I am not abandoning this fic in any way, shape, or form. I am merely being horribly restricted by technology. Please be patient and I will have the story updated as soon as I can.**

**In other news- Sherlock's no longer being so stupidly thick! I think we can all cheer for that! :)**

**Thanks! Please read and review!**

* * *

Sherlock, minus one pair of safety goggles, fell backwards onto his bed, pulling a laughing John atop him. The safety goggles had been rudely wrestled away, prompting Sherlock to retaliate in kind and only Mrs. Hudson's rushing up the stairs to make sure the two were not killing each other broke them apart, sweaty, faces flushed. Now, lying on his own bed with John, Sherlock found himself laughing at the silliness of it all, his deep baritone joining John's higher pitched laugh and he squirmed, liking the sound of them together. It was a perfect cadence and made him feel inordinately happy.

He stopped laughing long enough to grasp John's arse and pull him down, thrusting upwards at the same time, aligning their hips perfectly, and John's laughter cut off abruptly, morphing into a choked gasp. His fingers tangled in Sherlock's hair as he propped himself up with his elbows and he ground down, eliciting moans from both of them.

They kissed, their lips moving lazily together, unhurriedly and sweet despite the desire that was ramping up the longer they lay together. Sherlock shivered as John whispered his name, pressing down against him, and he tugged John's shirt out of his trousers to smooth his hands up his overly warm back. John arched into him, rubbing them together again, and Sherlock allowed his hands to travel down and beneath the band of John's trousers and over his smooth expanse of arse.

John jerked and pulled back, grinning down at Sherlock. "This would work a lot better with less clothing."

"I always said you were clever." Sherlock quipped, earning him a sharp retaliatory nip on his neck from John who then sat up, his thighs straddling Sherlock, and began unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock knew he was attractive, knew many people found him attractive, and, most importantly, he knew _John_ thought he was _very_ attractive from proof acquired from the many times he had strutted about the flat in nothing but his towel or pants. This did not stop him feeling a prickle of self-consciousness as he lay beneath the man and watched John's eyes devour each patch of skin as it was revealed, as if he had never seen it before. It was a look that had Sherlock fighting to control himself and not close his eyes or try and pull his shirt together. He felt exposed in a way he had never experienced before and his stomach fluttered as he nervously licked his lips.

When the last button had been dealt with, Sherlock sat up so the shirt could be properly thrown to the side and then John pushed him back down, smiling as he ran his slightly calloused fingertips up Sherlock's naked sides, leaving goose bumps in their wake and causing Sherlock to arch slightly beneath him. He leaned down and gently pressed a kiss to Sherlock's collarbone. Sherlock shivered beneath his touch and actually jumped when he felt John's tongue flick out, briefly running up his neck, before jumping down to lick at his chest and tease his left nipple.

Sherlock bit his lips to keep a much undignified moan in. He allowed his eyes to slide closed and just _felt_ the sensations.

"Don't close your eyes." John said, pulling away and stroking Sherlock's face. John always hated it when Sherlock retreated into his mind when they were doing anything sexual and he was damned if he would let that happen this time.

Sherlock, opening his eyes, all traces of hesitancy gone, let out a huff of annoyance and decided it was really time to speed things along. He reached down and began deftly unbuttoning John's jeans. He had almost reached his goal of making enough room to slide his hand inside when John pulled his hands away and placed them around his still clothed back.

"What?"

"Let's just take this slow, hmm?" John asked, his breathing coming hard, obviously aroused. Why would he not want to finish this?

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I would like to complete this before I am old and grey." He said snarkily but John just laughed and tugged his fingers to the front of his shirt.

"Get started then." He laughed, dropping his own hands and leaving Sherlock's where they fluttered uncertainly.

"It is not necessary to disrobe to have sex." His fingers fiddled with the buttons and John shook his head.

"Yeah, I know you don't think it is. That's why we haven't taken any of our clothes off the whole time we've been doing this. That changes tonight, though, we will have a proper shag with actual bare skin that's not just our cocks. Get started." John murmured the last seductively and Sherlock realized that John was rather good at being seductive. And persuasive.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, concealing his excitement, and began to unbutton John's shirt. He tried to do it as quickly as possible if only to annoy John but by the time Sherlock had finished, his hands were shaking slightly and he was fumbling just a bit. As he moved to spread the fabric, John suddenly caught his hands.

"What _now_?" he asked, agitated, but froze when he saw the look on his face.

"Look…I know…you _know_ what you're expecting to see, all right? You've seen it before, just not up close." John said, licking his lips nervously, his eyes boring into Sherlock's seriously. "Just don't…don't make it a big deal, ok? I promise when this is over…you can get out your damn magnifying glass and look all you want but right now…just don't."

His scar. He was talking about his scar. Sherlock had seen it a few times, nothing invasive and only brief glances here and there. Enough to know the shape of it, the way the scar tissue had formed, the color of the old wound- still red, a splash of color on John's otherwise pale shoulder. He had never been allowed a thorough examination and even _he_ had known that asking John for one would have been very, very not good. It seemed that now was not the time for that examination either. Looking up at John, his face anxious and set, ready to fight with Sherlock over this, he realized that it was fine. He wouldn't draw attention to it if doing so would upset John.

Sherlock nodded and John visibly relaxed, his hands falling away, and Sherlock spread the fabric, the cloth falling to either side to reveal John's pale chest and shoulders. He was still toned from his army days, though going just a bit soft around the edges, but still defined. Sherlock took in every detail, keeping his eyes firmly away from John's shoulder, and smoothed his hand across John's chest, down his stomach, and teased at the band of his pants that were just visible. He started to unbutton them, sliding the zip down.

John laughed and shook his head. "You're hopeless. I'll never teach you proper foreplay, will I?"

"Foreplay's dull."

Minutes later, John's mind was going a bit fuzzy and he was starting to think "fuck teaching Sherlock about foreplay- I'll do it next time" and when Sherlock's fingers did something that made him gasp, his eyes flying open wide, the thought of continuing to teach him went out the window.

"What do you want?" John asked as they rolled on the bed, grinding against each other and gasping, and Sherlock had the distinct impression that somehow, somewhere, the tables had turned between him and John. Sherlock had thought he was in control- he was always in control during his sexual encounters- but somehow John usually was when they were together. Because the sound of John asking him what he wanted sent a convulsive shudder down his spine and there was only white noise in his mind as he struggled to come to terms with what it was exactly that he wanted. They had done variations of every sexual act except one over the last month and really what Sherlock wanted right now was the one thing he was not entirely certain John would give him but-

"I want to engage in penetrative sex." He replied, rolling his hips again, and he felt John freeze beneath him and pulled away so he could see his face. He looked nervous- torn- worried and anxious and Sherlock could almost see the thoughts flashing across his face. He sighed. "You penetrating _me_. I assume that you do not want to the other way round."

John's eyes darkened and he hummed in his chest. "I…don't think that's a good idea." He sounded reluctant.

"Why not?"

"I think it's just…moving too fast. We've only just started this-"

"John. I have fucked people I have known for less than thirty minutes. I have known you considerably longer. What is the problem?"

The problem? There's no problem- or there wouldn't be if I wasn't stupidly in love with you, you tall, lanky, oblivious git. John stared up at Sherlock who raised an eyebrow, waiting impatiently for John's answer and he already knew what he would tell him. You are one sick, fucking masochist John.

"Ok-"

"Excellent." Sherlock suddenly bounded off the bed and pulled open his nightstand drawer, extracting lube and condoms and tossing them casually towards John.

"Less of a mess." He said shortly as John caught the box of condoms and tried to find the lube which had rolled somewhere along his thigh. He noticed John was nervous, looking at the lube as if it were some foreign creature of potentially dangerous means.

"It's not an activity that is outside the range of your mental capacity. You are a doctor, after all."

"Thanks, Sherlock." John said dryly, pulling him back down on the bed.

John prepared him as if he had all day. There was nothing hurried about his movements and he used smooth, gliding strokes in and out of Sherlock's body, stretching him slowly and gently. Sherlock relaxed beneath his touch even while his desire ramped up, his hips moving in time with John's slow thrusts, wanting more.

"I see your medical training paid off." Sherlock tried to hiss sarcastically as John's fingers unerringly found his prostate and gently pressed, making sparks dance behind his eyelids.

"Mm, yeah. Glad I went through so many years of medical school just so when I shagged a bloke I could find his prostate." John giggled and Sherlock laughed with him, the motions doing odd sensations where John's fingers were still inside him. He arched and rolled his hips, and John thrust his fingers in time with Sherlock's motions.

Finally, he told John he was ready. John snorted and said he thought not.

"I think I know my own body-" Sherlock began hotly, attempting to turn around but John's hand on the small of his back stopped him.

"I'm sure you do, Sherlock. Except that I don't think you are. And I am a _doctor_, after all." He heard the smug smirk in John's voice and huffed, settling back down and beginning to pout. John added a third finger and brushed against his prostate and Sherlock forgot what he was supposed to be pouting about.

John pulled away, his fingers lingering, and pressed a gossamer kiss to Sherlock's back before asking him if he were ready.

Sherlock ran through several cutting remarks and quips in his head but was cut short when John's hand smoothed along his back, feeling the callouses and roughened pads of his fingers, and remembered that this was John. His John. Something in his brain short-circuited and all he could do was nod, his hair flopping into his face.

Sherlock hissed when John first slid in, but he went slowly, pausing and allowing him time to get adjusted. He could feel John's thighs trembling behind him, his hands shaking ever so slightly as they continued to glide along Sherlock's back.

"I'm fine." Sherlock said after John had been still for too long, rocking back against him.

"Are…you sure?" John's voice was breathy and strained and Sherlock craned his neck around trying to see his face. John leaned forward and captured his lips in a kiss that was a bit of a stretch but Sherlock felt it all the way down to where they were joined together.

John began slowly thrusting and Sherlock moaned, closing his eyes, and falling into the sensations being evoked in his body. It was habit, perhaps, or maybe it was because John was not immediately in front of him, but Sherlock forgot who was fucking him, turned his mind off, and only focused on what his body was feeling. The in and out glide of someone fucking him, the pleasure spiking each time his prostate was brushed. His cock twitched between his legs but he refrained from touching it just yet. Not yet. It just made the pleasure he was feeling all the more intense.

He threw back his head and breathed deeply, holding the air, and then releasing it in a whoosh. The thrusting behind him stilled and he rocked back, making the person pick up the pace and thrust harder.

John knew he had lost him. He could feel it in Sherlock's posture, in the way he had gone rather silent, despite the fact that he could feel he was hard, knew he was enjoying it, was in fact rocking back against him trying to make him go faster. Sherlock had gone wherever it was in his mind that he went when they did anything sexual and John knew that at that moment, Sherlock was not even aware that it was John thrusting into him. He briefly wondered if he imagined someone else but filed that thought away for later.

He stopped thrusting completely and Sherlock moaned, rocking back hard against him, wanting to come, lost in the pleasure rioting about his body, but John pulled out. His hands on Sherlock's hips made him turn until he was lying on his back and John kissed him, biting at his lips and tugging until Sherlock opened his eyes, his pupils large pools. He gasped up at John and arched his back.

"John-"

"There you are." John murmured, raising Sherlock's legs and sliding carefully back in. Sherlock's eyes went wide at this new angle and he gave a choked gasp as John began thrusting again.

Sherlock moaned as he watched John thrust into him, the muscles in his stomach contracting and his lean hips snapping with each thrust, and craned his neck so he could see that piece of John going in and out of himself. He opened his mouth in a soundless cry, letting his head fall back on the pillow and snapping his hips up to meet John's thrusts.

Sherlock curled his own hand around his length as John thrust but his hand was batted away and John pumped it with his own hand. Sherlock craned his neck in order to view this erotic sight as well.

"Use…use your other…other hand." He panted and John paused, shifting his weight and stance and brought his other hand up and began jerking Sherlock's cock in time with his thrusts.

Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head and he bit his lip to keep from making noises. John's thrusts faltered as he tugged on Sherlock's chin to stop this.

"Don't…_ohhh_, let me hear you. Oh, fuck, let me hear you, _Sherlock_."

Sherlock moaned, moving his hips up in time with John's thrusts and asked what John had said, even though he had heard perfectly well.

"_Sherlock_- don't…stop…making noises."

Sherlock made a lovely obscene noise beneath him and John squeezed his eyes shut and tried to concentrate on not coming. He wanted to so badly. His entire body was screaming for release, his testicles drawn so close to his body they almost hurt.

"Please, Sherlock…oh, god…please, please come." John snapped his hips, driving harder into Sherlock, keeping his eyes closed, knowing if he looked down he would come. His hand glided over Sherlock's length, faster and faster as his thrusts became more erratic and he crashed towards his orgasm. He was so close, another few seconds and he would-

"John! John, say my name."

John didn't even stop to think that this was an odd or clichéd request. "_Sherlock_…oh, fucking hell, Sherlock…_Sherlock_-" He broke off when he felt Sherlock's muscles clamp down on his cock and ripped his eyes open in time to see Sherlock come, his face contorted in painful pleasure, his eyes firmly fixed on John's.

That was all it took for John to give two more shuddering thrusts and he was coming as well, shouting too loudly but unable to fucking care, as he climaxed inside Sherlock's body.

His entire body shuddering, John slumped forward and rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder. He could feel his muscles shaking as if they were made of jelly, protesting at continuing to hold him up, and he laughed, a strangled and weak sound.

"What's…what's so funny?" he heard Sherlock ask breathlessly beneath him and he pulled back.

"Nothing. Holy hell, Sherlock." He said, bringing their lips together and he felt Sherlock inhale sharply beneath him, his entire body tensing.

"Did I hurt you?" John asked, quickly pulling away, concern clouding his eyes.

Sherlock looked dazed and shook his head, tugging John's head back down for more kisses.

"Sorry, but if I don't move I'm going to collapse on top of you." John said wryly, gently removing himself from Sherlock's body and flopping to the side. He dealt with the condom, knotting it before tossing it to the side, and then turned back to Sherlock was still lay on his back, frozen, staring at the ceiling as if the answer to a utterly interesting puzzle lay there.

"Are you all right?" John draped an arm around Sherlock's middle that was damp with sweat and Sherlock suddenly bolted upright, flinging his arm away and standing, wincing slightly.

"Sherlock?" John asked, panicking, wondering if he had done something wrong. Had he hurt-

"Just…forgot about…about the experiment. Don't bother…you can just…just stay there." Sherlock said, his voice faltering and frantically gathering his clothes together as John watched with wide, anxious eyes.

"Um…Sherlock, are you ok?" He made a move to get off the bed but Sherlock flapped his hand.

"Fine, fine. I'll be in the kitchen. You can rest here, I'm sure you're tired." He almost ran from his bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

John blinked, worry and disappointment making his gut clench unpleasantly. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair before closing his eyes and wishing he had never started this thing with Sherlock. He was allowing himself to get hurt no matter what he did. _He_ was doing it to _himself_. He was a consenting adult who knew that Sherlock would not return any love he had for him and he still allowed himself to fall into situations where he knew he would only get hurt. Maybe…maybe it was time to call an end to this. He had been thinking of doing so earlier in the evening- that's what his date had been about- and he and Sherlock could go back to being friends and eventually….he would get over this.

Maybe it was for the best.

* * *

Outside in the hallway, Sherlock leaned heavily against the door and covered his mouth with a shaking hand. How could he have missed this for so long?

He was in love with John.

He had never been more scared in his life.


	11. Chapter 11

**I'm back! I have an awesome new laptop and, while Windows 8 is kicking my butt, I am back to writing. Thanks to everyone for sticking with me and being so patient. I have the feeling everyone will want to kill me at the end of this chapter anyway...so, please refrain? :D This was originally a big, long chapter but it was pretty heavy so I'm splitting it into 2 chapters. The other should be posted sometime in the next few days. After this chapter there should be only 2 more chapters to go, bringing the total for this story to 13.**

**Enjoy, and please read and review.**

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He was trembling. He was goddamn trembling, his entire body shaking as foreign emotions that he was desperately trying to put a name to coursed through his frame. He was _afraid_. Sherlock cursed softly and tried to make his body behave, tried to bring it back under his control but nothing worked and it was all because of _him_. He heard John sigh behind the closed door and something inside him made him want to wrench the door open and yell at him to stop it- go away- leave me alone! Stop making me feel this way! This is all your fault!

Except…even in his terror, he knew that was not rational, it wasn't _John's_ fault that he was in love with him. It was his.

What had gone wrong?

It should have been so simple. It _had_ been simple until…what? What had happened? When had he fallen in love with John? _When_? The trembling in his body grew worse as he tried and failed to find the exact moment he had loved John, when the immense liking he had felt for his friend had morphed into something horribly complicated and unwanted.

Sherlock realized he was still pressed against the wood of his own bedroom door, naked, his body pleasantly aching from being fucked, and clutching his clothes to his body. He rolled his eyes and stormed off down the hall, slamming the bathroom door shut and flinging his clothes into a corner. He could smell John on his skin and every time he moved the scent assailed his nose, making him want to go back down the hall, slide back into bed, and stay there until John woke up- or perhaps wake him early in a distinctly naughty way.

No. He needed space to analyze and think, not…not do that. Or at least, not right now.

Sherlock mechanically washed his body- his deliciously sore body, each movement a reminder of what he and John had done- and allowed his mind to whir at top speed.

The first time he could remember being disconcerted with John had been when he had unexpectedly said no. When he had first made John the offer of having sex with him, John's automatic reaction had been increased pulse and his eyes had fallen to Sherlock's lips, hunger and longing written all over his body for Sherlock to easily deduce with the barest of glances. John wanted him…_badly_. Sherlock knew all the signs of someone who lusted for him, having read it countless times on different faces and John showed all the signs.

John had asked him if _Sherlock_ were sexually attracted to _him_- and Sherlock had said yes because he wanted John to agree to his proposal and have sex with him. He knew that had been what John needed to hear and he had lied without a second thought, then watched John flush and splutter with fascination, feeling something twist in his gut which he had promptly squashed. He had supposed, in purely physical terms, that John was a handsome man and people of both genders seemed to find him thus. For Sherlock, though, it did not matter if he were "turned on" by a person or not. He would not exactly be looking at them as they had sex- all he cared about were the pleasurable sensations either they or himself would inspire in his body during sex. Sherlock had known John was a considerate lover, would not be cruel, and already cared for him as a friend so he would therefore not hurt Sherlock, not deliberately, and would take care that Sherlock felt pleasure. So yes, Sherlock believed, in purely abstract terms, that he found John sexually attractive.

No, now he realized he had not known what that meant. Sherlock hummed in his chest as he remembered his reactions to John over the last month and realized he had never felt such intense sexual attraction to someone before. John made him _want_, made his body ache and throb, made his mind stutter and blank, and reduced him to base _need_ with barely a word spoken or a single layer of clothing removed. He surprised himself with this knowledge and that made him reevaluate his answer, there in the foggy bathroom. Yes. _Yes_, he was sexually attracted to John. He did not really have a "type" as some people claimed, and if he did have a type, he would have been quite sure short, solid, army doctor would not have been it- but…surprisingly it was. _Oh, dear god, it was_. Sherlock's mind leapt onto a tangent involving John's army fatigues and how those could be incorporated next time-before he could jerk his thoughts back and under his control.

So, John had rejected him and Sherlock had…felt anger? He remembered the horribly uncertain feeling he had experienced when John had continued to say no, even after he had made the decision to start his seduction. He had thought, at the time, it was anger, but now looking back, he realized it had not been anger. It had been hurt. John's rejection of him had hurt. It had twisted his heart and made him feel like flinging something at the walls just to give vent to the aching pain.

Well, his rational mind calmly state, why should it not have hurt? You already liked John. He's your friend- your only friend. That emotional reaction was to be expected, naturally.

Perhaps that explained it, then. But when had his feelings morphed into _more_? Into needing John so strongly he felt sick with it?

It was so trite to say that the first time he had realized something was different was when John had kissed him but that had been the moment something inside Sherlock had leaped, had reacted, had flipped over and left him feeling _wrong_. He had ended their kiss immediately but the next day, he had felt the need to do it again, to prove that it had just been a fluke, and that nothing serious had happened. He had kissed John, pressing against him in his bedroom, and had not felt the same heat unfurl inside him. It was the same mashing of lips together with little to recommend it and Sherlock had almost felt disappointed, even though this had been exactly the reaction he had wanted and expected from this encounter.

Then John had threaded his fingers through his hair and taken control and Sherlock had forgotten the reason he had stormed up the stairs, forgotten about the case, forgotten about everything except the movement of John's lips beneath his own, eliciting a shiver from him and making that sick, swooping feeling in his stomach multiply until he was not sure if he hated or loved the feeling. It reminded Sherlock of jumping across rooftops- that brief second when his feet left the stability of the building and he launched himself into the air, the flash of uncertainty before he landed. Not exactly pleasant sensations but he had been falling, falling into the kiss and trying to brokenly deduce it when John had suddenly asked why he had been there, snapping him out of the fug and bringing him back to the present.

Ever since then, he could not get John out of his head. He had actually desired sex during a case, he had fantasized about John, he had watched as John gave him fellatio that night on the sofa (and he never watched his sexual partners, the sight usually putting him off but _John_…dear god in heaven, his reaction to John), and he had not been able to turn his mind off as he brought to the fore of his thoughts everything he knew about John. It had been exquisite. It had been almost painful, heightened by John's kiss afterwards which had made the emotions he had previously been feeling amplified, scaring him and exciting him at once. The effect, he remembered, had been euphoric, a rush that was entirely unknown to him until that moment. Was that love? Had that been the exact moment he had loved John? Had that been the reason John had walked away, shutting down, and leaving Sherlock? Had he seen something? Sherlock shook his head, droplets of water flying from his hair. He needed more information to work with, he needed to be certain. It was possible, likely, but still not for sure

One facet of this remained clear: The evidence that he loved John had been right there, right in front of his face for more than a month and he had failed to see it for what it was. He could read it in other people without pausing- elevated pulses, flushed cheeks, minute facial tics, sidelong glances, body language- he read it all like a well-known book but when it came to himself…oh, he had been an _idiot_.

He was in love with John.

Sherlock shivered and allowed the steadily cooling water to sluice down his body as chill bumps broke out along his skin.

He was scared.

He had never been in love before. Ever. He had loved others, of course. His mother, his father, Mycroft…but those were rather cold emotions compared to how he felt for John. One could not really compare them. This sort of love, romantic love, was heat and _passion_ (a word he knew the meaning of and thought he had experienced but no, he knew now he had never experienced passion), his body not in control, giving that control to someone else and not knowing for certain they would return the emotion, or if they did return it if they would return it properly, romantically not platonically. If this was what falling in love was all about it was bloody uncomfortable and stupid and he didn't want it. This had been what John and Mycroft had been talking about, this was how their friendship could be ruined.

It would not be ruined if John returned his sentiments, though. Hope beat weakly in Sherlock's chest as he bit his lip and went back over the entire time he had known John, his brow furrowing in concentration. Had John shown any indication of love? Platonic love, yes, many times over. The man had killed for him after all. Lust, he had shown so much of that emotion Sherlock felt himself growing hard just remembering the many instances, but love? Had John shown it? Sherlock growled in frustration. He needed to be _sure_ of this- he needed more data. John had tried to go on a date tonight- what did that mean (and how obvious could Sherlock have been that he wanted to keep John all to himself?)? Had John been craving sexual release? Likely, since it had been relatively easy to keep him in the flat, but did that mean that John had actually wanted to stay because he loved Sherlock or had he just wanted the sure thing that Sherlock offered- getting off with a willing body, something that John found usually lacking in his dates? Sherlock was so frustratingly unsure- the lines of lust and what could possibly be love blurring in his mind when he _needed to know for sure_ until he was shaking again.

He closed his eyes and fiddled blindly with the taps, trying to warm the water and maybe stop the chills that were making his body convulse. He didn't want to ruin their friendship. John's friendship meant…it meant more to him than anything. John was the first person who really understood him, he not only tolerated Sherlock's presence but sought it out, delighted in it, was awed by Sherlock's brilliance while others mistrusted him and called him a freak. John was…John was important to him.

So where did that leave him? What he needed to do was suppress this…this emotion until he was sure of how John felt. That way, he could still retain John's friendship if John did not…did not love him. The thought was logical and sound but left Sherlock feeling slightly saddened and feeling lost.

That was the right choice…wasn't it? Or was it?

Sherlock growled and turned the taps off, jerking the shower curtain open and wrapping himself in a towel. His heart was pounding again and already sweat slicked his palms from his heightened emotions. He needed to calm down. He needed to think, gather more data, be rational, and puzzle this through until he reached the correct conclusion.

He strode quickly down the hall, stopping short when he saw John sitting in his armchair in the sitting room, fully dressed, his hair still standing on end from earlier, a steaming cup of tea cradled in his hands. John's head whipped round when he heard Sherlock and his eyes raked down his body, a heated sweep that did nothing to calm Sherlock's nerves. Instead, it inflamed them, sending them careening off on different tangents- sex, love, lust, desperation, confusion, passion, fear.

John's eyebrows rose as he took in Sherlock and his obvious distress. He started to stand, his brow furrowing in concern. "Are you ok?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" He pivoted and went to his room, leaving John staring after him, worried and still half-risen from his chair.

Sherlock threw his clothes on, casting glances at the bed where the sheets were still rumpled enticingly. He ran his hand across the wrinkled fabric, visuals of him and John there, happily rolling about and laughing only an hour before, assaulting his mind. He ran his hand down his face, blinking when he realized he was sweating and choked out a brief, humorless laugh.

He heard John clear his throat from the doorway but he did not turn around. He was not sure he trusted himself at the moment to meet John's eyes.

"Sherlock? We need to talk."


	12. Chapter 12

**Thanks so much to everyone for following, favoriting, reading and reviewing! You guys are all awesome! Here is the long-awaited chapter. I felt so badly for leaving such a big cliffhanger at the end of the last chapter so I worked hard to get this one done and posted. I have written two more chapters to this story which brings the total up to 14 chapters. So, there's that.**

**In other news, Mrs. Hudson is awesome, yes?**

**Please read and review- and enjoy! :)**

* * *

"What is there to talk about?" Sherlock asked, jerking his hand away from the bed, his voice striving for boredom but not quite achieving it as it shook from the force of his emotions. He bared his teeth in frustration and almost growled.

John narrowed his eyes and looked at his rigid back, noticing Sherlock's shaking hands. "What's wrong?"

"There's nothing wrong." Sherlock said quickly, turning around and brushing past John, avoiding eye contact and trying to make his escape. He needed time away from John, away from everyone, time to think.

John's hand shot out and he pulled Sherlock back, his grip tight, uncompromising.

"What's wrong." John's eyes roved over Sherlock's sweaty and pale face, _knowing_ something was wrong but for the life of him unable to figure out what. He watched as Sherlock remained fidgety, tapping his fingers against his thigh, his eyes zooming around the flat, not looking at John, too wide, too much white showing, and something stirred in his memory, a time when Sherlock had seemed less than in control then as well. "Sherlock? What…are you _afraid_?"

Sherlock gave a choked laugh, grimacing horribly, and shook John's hand off his arm. "I'm not afraid."

"Then what is it?"

Sherlock strode away, hearing John's footsteps slowly following behind him, and ducked into the kitchen to begin setting his abandoned experiment to rights. He disposed of the liver in the trash and heard John's halted complaint from the doorway. John hated it when he threw body parts in the bin- it often resulted in angry calls from the sanitation workers- but Sherlock did not care at the moment. He heard John sigh.

"I don't think I can do this anymore." John's voice sounded heavy, sad, but Sherlock was only half-listening as his mind sped ahead, lost in trying to decide the best possible course of action to take.

"Hmm? Do what?"

"_This_, Sherlock. Having sex with you. I can't do it anymore."

Sherlock froze and felt something horrible and icy land in the pit of his stomach as pure agony screeched along his already frayed nerve endings. It was suddenly hard to breathe and he could feel every painful beat of his heart as, behind him, John sighed again and ran his fingers through his hair.

"I'm not saying that we can't be friends anymore. I really want to still be your friend just not…not friends with benefits. It's too hard-"

"If that's what you want, John." Sherlock said dully, his eyes dancing around the kitchen as if the answers to this problem were written on the cabinets, on the walls. His knees began to knock and shake together. John was rejecting him. Again, but this time it was being felt in the worst possible way. This was a new sort of pain that Sherlock had never experienced before. He wondered how he rated it on a scale of 1 to 10 before dismissing that thought as unhelpful.

"Just let me finish-"

"No doubt you are worried our friendship will be ruined by ending our association however that is not the case. We both went into the situation as consenting adults with our eyes open. I told you it was a mutually beneficial arrangement, you enjoyed my body, and shagging you was highly convenient for me while it lasted but of course it would have to eventually end. There is no fault for ending it and no reason for overly sentimental statements as I can tell that is what you are wanting to say. We will preserve our friendship with no harm done." Sherlock babbled, his voice calm and unemotional and distantly he was proud of himself for keeping it together while inwardly he was collapsing, hurting, pain lancing so deep he wondered vaguely if people died from it. So this was love?

"Right." John sounded stunned, and Sherlock frowned, his fingers shaking only slightly as he moved his glass instruments back into their proper positions on the table.

"What's wrong?"

"I just…I don't know. I was…I was just convenient?"

Sherlock turned to look at John and immediately knew what he had said something not good. John simply stood and stared at him with a slightly sick expression on his face. He looked lost and surprised as if Sherlock had just hit him and they stared at each other in absolute silence for long seconds, Sherlock working back and trying to figure out what he said that was so wrong. He had told John, when this had started, that it was a mutually beneficial arrangement and John had still agreed. He had hurt John though, he could see it. It was the plainest thing Sherlock had ever seen and he didn't know how to fix it.

"I informed you when we started this-"

"Yeah, I know all that but the way you said it just now…It sounded like you..." John asked, his voice hollow and confused, his brow furrowed. "You made it sound like you didn't really…really want _me_. You just wanted the convenience _of_ me."

Sherlock took a deep breath of his own. Ah, so that was what John was getting at. Yes, he had lied to him originally, manipulating him into agreeing by professing to desire him but…that had _changed_. He _was_ attracted to John. He thought John…John was the most attractive man he had ever been lucky enough to know. Everything about him turned Sherlock on- his voice, his body, his very taste- the memory alone was enough to make the blood begin pooling in Sherlock's groin.

"Am I wrong? Did you…did you even want _me_ or was I just bloody _convenient_?" John asked, his voice shaking as his anger steadily rose. His lips were thinned down and his fists were clenched at his sides. "Did you lie about being attracted to me?"

There was a ringing silence in the room and Sherlock felt as if he were about to vibrate out of his skin. He could not have this conversation right now. He knew what John was asking and already he was beginning to think it would be not good to tell him he had indeed lied about being attracted to him. If he had his wits about him- if he were not so scattered- he knew he could convince John he had not lied, he could come up with some suave answer that would take the hurt, angry look from John's face but for the life of him, Sherlock could not think of a way to respond. He could barely gather his thoughts together. What could he say?

"Sherlock?"

Yes, yes he had heard John but how did he tell him that how he felt had changed? How did he start to expose himself in such a way when John had just ended their agreement? _What should he say_? How did he make the situation better? Did it even matter to try and make it better?

"_Sherlock_. Tell me."

Something inside Sherlock snapped and he made an impatient gesture, glaring at John who started stoically back at him. "_I heard you the first time you asked me, John!_ What do you want me to say? That I no longer wished to go out and waste my time trying to find a stranger when I needed sexual release? I knew it would be a mutually beneficial arrangement because I knew you wanted me. Is that what you want to hear?" Sherlock watched John's eyes widen and a small voice in his head was begging him to shut up_, stop talking_, but the nervous energy in his gut refused to let him " Do you want to hear that I faked desire for you so you would agree to what I was asking? That I knew you wanted me, you were obviously attracted to me, and that made it that much easier to get you to say yes?"

"So…you-"

"Yes, I lied, John! Is that what you wanted to hear? Now can you please leave me alone so I can _think_?!"

John jerked away, spinning around and grabbing his coat from the hook near the door. Sherlock's panic spiked- where was John going? He reached out for him but John jerked away, his jaw clenched.

"Leave me the fuck alone, Sherlock."

"John, please, I'm sorry just let me explain-"

"No." John quickly pulled on his jacket and clattered down the stairs.

Sherlock stood, paralyzed, in the middle of the kitchen and desperately tried to make sense of what had just happened, what he had just shouted at John. _Oh, god_.

He slowly, almost mechanically walked into the sitting room and glanced around, lost. Everything looked the same but Sherlock felt as if his entire world had tilted and now nothing felt right anymore. He sank down onto the sofa and buried his face in his hands. What had just happened? Had he and John really been laughing and happy only an hour earlier?

"Go after him."

Sherlock jerked his head up to see Mrs. Hudson standing in the doorway, her arms crossed and her dress slightly rumpled- obviously having collided with an irate John on the stairs. She looked sternly at him, obviously disapproving, but as she took in Sherlock's wide eyes and pallid complexion, her rigidity waned.

"Oh, Sherlock." She murmured and crossed the room to sink onto the sofa beside him and pulled him into her arms. Sherlock resisted the entire way, but once Mrs. Hudson had forced his head onto her shoulder and began stroking his back, he slumped into her caresses, knowing he would not be going anywhere unless she allowed it.

"What happened? I heard shouting and knew the two of you were having a domestic."

"I'm sure you heard most of it." He said, though his could not inject enough venom into his voice for it to matter. He just sounded tired and dull.

"Yes, I did. A little. Tell me the rest." Mrs. Hudson's hand paused on his back.

"John…I…I lied to John and shouted at him and he left."

Mrs. Hudson snorted delicately. "Tell me the whole of it, Sherlock."

And Sherlock did. He told Mrs. Hudson everything, from the first night when he came up with his plan- he glossed over the smuttier aspects of the story- until tonight, holding nothing back. He told her he was in love with John and how he had reached that conclusion, how scared he was, John's suggestion of ending their arrangement, then what he had revealed- shouted, Mrs. Hudson reminded him- to John earlier.

As he talked, he supposed this was how small children confessed misdeeds to their mothers (not that he knew firsthand) and he knew he ought to be ashamed- he was in his thirties for god's sake- but Mrs. Hudson obviously wanted to hear what he had to say. Her hand continued to soothingly stroke down his back as he spoke and when he admitted some things- such as his lies to John- she sighed and her hand stopped its motions and Sherlock's stomach twisted as he realized he had done badly. Even if he did not know exactly what he had done badly, Mrs. Hudson let him know that he had. She was like John in this way.

When he finally stopped talking, Mrs. Hudson gave him a last squeeze and he pulled away, slumping back on the sofa, feeling drained. She took his hand, patting it absently. "You and John are going to be the death of an old lady."

"I haven't shot at the wall in months." Sherlock said, lost in his own muddled thoughts.

"Oh, Sherlock, are you really that blind?" Mrs. Hudson asked softly, and Sherlock dragged his eyes up to look into her own sparkling ones that were shining with pity.

"Blind to what?"

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "It's not really my place to say, dear, but frankly I don't think the two of you will reach it on your own without a little help. John's in love with you. He has been, I think, almost since that first night the two of you spent together."

Sherlock was frowning, his eyes darting back and forth as he looked in the past, trying to discover if John had shown symptoms of love for him. He started to feel the sick, nauseous sensation in his abdomen when his uncertainty made an appearance again and only Mrs. Hudson's hand on his cheek jerked him out of his thoughts.

"Sherlock. Love isn't something you can puzzle through like one of your cases. Love is something you _feel_, dear."

"It feels horrible." He admitted, not liking all the warring sensations trampling about his usually ordered body and mind.

"It can also feel wonderful." Mrs. Hudson said quietly, threading his fingers through Sherlock's and giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. "Go after him and tell him everything you just told me."

"John loves me?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "I've never seen a boy so madly infatuated."

Sherlock had always trusted Mrs. Hudson's judgment. He was up in a flash, racing across the flat and grabbing his coat, swirling it on over himself. He ran back to give Mrs. Hudson a quick kiss on the cheek before he was running down the stairs and out into the cold night. He barely felt the icy pavement beneath his bare feet as he ran down the sidewalk after John.

* * *

John strode quickly down the sidewalk, trying to outrun what Sherlock had just told him, trying to outrun the horrible churning shame in his gut that he had thought for one second- He thought he would be physically sick and paused, leaning against a brick wall, trying to fight down the nausea in his throat. God, he had been such an idiot.

He placed his fist in front of his mouth to stave off the sickness and took deep, even breaths. He needed to calm down. He had known that Sherlock only wanted sex from him. Sherlock had _told him that_. What he hadn't told him was the he was not in any way attracted to John. For all his purposes, John had been a willing fuck when Sherlock needed the release. John shut his eyes as he remembered the way Sherlock had turned off, closed his eyes, and gone inside himself when John touched him- had he been repulsed? Was that the reason? He shook his head. He didn't need to know. It was pointless now anyway.

He walked for what felt like hours, his shoulders hunched against the chill wind. Almost no one was out at this time of night and John vaguely wondered how long Debra had waited for him at the restaurant before she gave him up as a bad job. He watched his feet eat away at the pavement. He could not go back to the flat yet, no matter how cold it was. Sherlock would be there and he would either ignore the situation entirely or try and reason John out of his bad mood, believing himself to be right. John did not know which was worse.

"_John_!"

He jumped and turned to see Sherlock Holmes, usually so composed and calm, running flat out towards him, his bare feet striking the icy pavement and John winced in sympathy. Sherlock galloped to a stop in front of him and hunched over, his hands on his knees, gasping for breath.

John looked at him, taking in his bare feet, disheveled hair, wide eyes, and panting mouth. It was obvious he had ran all the way here from the flat and even as bad as he was feeling, John sighed.

"Where are your shoes?" He winced, hating how sad and pathetic his voice sounded.

"John, I love you." Sherlock said in a rush, panting, his voice vibrating with nervous energy.

John froze, taking in Sherlock's appearance again and briefly wondered if he were high. No, he didn't think he was…

"What?"

"I- I love you."

John absorbed the words, then snorted and shoved his hands in his pockets, beginning to walk away. "Don't be cruel, Sherlock."

"I mean it!"

"How convenient." John murmured, continuing to walk and he heard Sherlock's feet pattering after him.

"I didn't realize- I didn't understand what I was feeling. I've never been in love before. Ever. You're the first person...the first person I've ever loved." John kept walking and Sherlock decided he could get no more pathetic than he was right at that moment, why not tell John the whole of it? "I'm scared, John."

John stopped walking and turned around. Sherlock was a few feet away from him, his body shivering from the cold and John looked him over with a critical eye. Finally, he sighed, his shoulders slumping and Sherlock took this as a sign John would listen.

"I did lie to you at first." Sherlock said and watched as John visibly flinched hearing the truth. "The way I have always had sex…I don't notice who I'm with. I go into my mind and only focus on what I'm _feeling_, not what my partner is feeling or even who my partner is. It shocked you when you discovered I had participated in sexual acts with both genders. I'm gay but have had sex with women because it doesn't matter as long as I'm feeling pleasure. I can tune everything else out. It's usually only about how…easy it is to procure a partner that night."

John had gone still, listening to what Sherlock was saying, really listening, and he remembered the times he and Sherlock had been intimate and he knew the exact moment he lost Sherlock to his own mind. Those times when he had known Sherlock did not even realize he was there and something clicked into place. It made sense- if Sherlock were telling the truth. Sherlock sensed that John was listening and plunged on.

"I thought I could do that with you- be sexually intimate- and I would never be repulsed because you _are_ an attractive man and I thought that I _was_ attracted to you. I wouldn't say I have a particular type because…because I've never really tried noticing other people. I didn't want to because there was no need. That wasn't how I operated. You rejected me, though, and I…I _wanted_ you. I wanted you to choose me. When you finally said yes…"Sherlock trailed off but John was watching him, waiting for him to continue and he could not deny John. "You have always been different, John. Right now…you're the most sexually attractive man I could ever imagine being with. I…my opinion changed the longer I was with you and I've tried to discover the first moment-"Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, huffing in annoyance.

"Sherlock, what are you trying to say?" John asked, his voice tired and Sherlock's worry that he was losing him spiked.

"I love you, John. I never want anyone else except you- I've had hundreds of people and none of them _ever_ made me feel the way you do. Back in the flat- you surprised me- I had just realized after we had sex that I was in love with you…and I'm…I'm scared. These…feeling and emotions are not normal for me. I've never felt this strongly before."

Sherlock stood, shaking in the cold, and waited for John to say something. Anything, but preferably that he loved Sherlock in return and would go back to the flat with him.

"Do you…do you love me?" Sherlock asked, unable to stay silent for much longer and truly not caring how pathetic he sounded. Mrs. Hudson has said John loved him but he desperately needed to hear that from John himself.

John looked away and did not say anything, his jaw clenched tight, his shoulders held rigidly. He blinked rapidly and seemed to be debating with himself. He remained silent, staring off into the night, the blaze of streetlamps seemingly fascinating. Sherlock continued to shiver, uncaring of his bodies reaction to the cold, the only important thing was John in front of him, keeping John with him. John whom he had hurt. John, the only person he loved.

John finally seemed to reach some conclusion because he shook himself and took a deep breath. He snorted and shook his head, looking at Sherlock's feet, which had turned an angry red from the cold. "Come on, let's get you back to the flat. You're going to get frostbite."

Sherlock's eyes flicked over John's every feature but John was still not making eye contact, was avoiding him, and finally Sherlock moved forward, his icy fingertips caressing John's cheek.

John stepped back, out of his range, and his eyes finally collided with Sherlock's. There was anger there but the dominant emotion was hurt, raw, aching hurt that almost made Sherlock cringe as he looked at it. _He_ had put that look in John's eyes.

"John-"He reached for him again but John stepped back once more.

"No. I…I don't…"He sighed. "Let's just go back, ok?"

Back to what? The flat? Their friendship before they both fell in love with each other? Sherlock could not deduce the answer as he trailed after John as they headed back to the flat.

* * *

Once they were back, John gathered blankets and wrapped Sherlock up. He then made him sit in front of the fire as he puttered about the kitchen making tea and soup.

"Don't know what you were thinking going out like that. You're going to get sick and I'll be the one who has to take care of you and I'll get fired if I take any more days off." John was speaking, distracted, and Sherlock rested his head on the back of his chair and gazed at John as he moved about the kitchen. He had ruined this. He knew it but he had no idea how to fix it, if he even could.

"Eat." John said, handing Sherlock a steaming bowl of soup, his voice hard and brooking no opposition. Sherlock's nerves were still firing all wrong and he felt as if he would throw up anything he ate but obliged John, sipping at the soup as John plopped down on the footstool and started chafing Sherlock's reddened feet with his hands. They ached as the feeling returned and Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, the soup sitting like a rock in his stomach. John was not looking at him, his attention firmly fixed on Sherlock's feet.

"John-"

"_Don't_, Sherlock." John said quietly, his hands not pausing as they rubbed painful feeling back into his extremities. "I don't want to talk about it."

It was so quite in the flat, the only sounds were John's hands as he carefully rubbed Sherlock's feet, his hands moving quickly to get as much circulation back as possible. Once he seemed satisfied with their color, he carefully re-covered his feet before hauling himself up and taking the half-full soup bowl.

"Go to bed when you get warmer. You need to sleep so your body can fight off an infection."

"John-"

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock sat in the armchair and listened to John turn out the light in the kitchen and climb the stairs to his bedroom.


	13. Chapter 13

**So much thanks to everyone who reads and reviews this story! I get so much inspiration from reading everyone's comments and it makes me write faster :) So THANKS! Well, this is it- the penultimate chapter. The next chapter should be ready to be posted in another few days and there will be smut, glorious smut. You're welcome.**

**Enjoy! :**)

* * *

John's predication was accurate: Sherlock got very sick after his foray into the cold without shoes and he spent a miserable few days on the sofa, breathing through his mouth, submitting himself to being fussed over by Mrs. Hudson, and given rueful looks by a competent and businesslike Doctor Watson. Because that was who was taking care of him- Doctor Watson, not John. _John_ would have tried to find ways to entertain him, or laughed at him, or called him an idiot for getting sick in the first place, sarcastically saying that the Great Sherlock Holmes had been laid low by a severe cold and he should phone Lestrade and tell him so the other man would know Sherlock was actually human. John would have taken time away from the surgery to cater to Sherlock's every whim, commiserated with him that lying on the sofa being sick was boring, and perhaps obliged him with sympathy sex.

_Doctor Watson_ was highly unlikely to give Sherlock sex and his very expression, closed off and distant, kept Sherlock from even mentioning it. Doctor Watson went to his job at the surgery every day without fail and only took care of Sherlock when he had free moments during the mornings and evenings, leaving most of the work during the day to an obliging and sympathetic Mrs. Hudson who seemed to feel badly for both her boys. He said not a word about Sherlock's petulant, sick behavior except that behavior which effected his recovery ("Eating's _important_, Sherlock. You'll never get better if you refuse food. Eat. _Now_."), he prescribed antibiotics and forced his sick patient to take them (not _Sherlock_, he was reduced to the status of a _sick patient_ who kipped on the sofa). When his duties with his patient were done, Doctor Watson would retreat to his bedroom and leave his mouth-breathing, miserable, patient downstairs coughing wetly and using an alarming number of tissues as bad telly played softly in the background.

Mrs. Hudson, for her part, clucked and fussed over Sherlock and took no nonsense from him. She bullied him into eating when Doctor Watson was gone, and spiced her food with sage advice on how to act with John. Sherlock pouted and rolled his eyes and was frankly mildly alarmed at how stern Mrs. Hudson could be when he was feeling so poorly, but listened to every word she said, memorizing it, and the obvious, overall theme was:

"He just needs some time, dear. Don't push him and give him some space. He's thinking things out, working out his feelings. You've given him a lot to think about and John needs time to adjust."

Inwardly, Sherlock thought John was taking entirely too long to "think things out," though that should perhaps be expected- not everyone was a genius. Sherlock was more concerned about John trying to "work out his feelings" which sounded tedious and, honestly, a bit alarming, but there was the possibility John would reject him if he "pushed him," as Mrs. Hudson was fond of saying, and so Sherlock was willing to give him some "space." He pointed out to Mrs. Hudson that this would be very hard to accomplish as he and John shared the flat but the kind lady had patiently explained this was not what she had meant.

As each day passed, Sherlock grew more anxious for John to reach a conclusion. What was there to think about or work out? Either he was in love with Sherlock (as Mrs. Hudson still assured Sherlock each morning when he seemed particularly dejected after John left for work) or he wasn't- there was no in-between…was there? When Sherlock said thus to Mrs. Hudson, as the infuriating woman watched crap telly in _his_ flat (and no, he was not getting involved in the talk show, even if he _was_ watching it that did not mean he was _enjoying_ it), she had barely looked away from the television before responding:

"Oh, Sherlock." She sighed. "Have you tried apologizing?"

* * *

That evening, after John made dinner and forced Sherlock to eat, he perched on the coffee table and began taking Sherlock's vitals. It wasn't necessary but Sherlock never complained as the check placed him in close proximity to John and required John to touch him, running those deliciously calloused fingers over his pulse, then over his chest. No matter how perfunctory he tried to make the touches, Sherlock still felt them like brands and reveled in the contact. John seemed concerned that Sherlock's cold would morph into something more severe and he joked that Sherlock would be the perfect host for a super virus. Sherlock's interest had been piqued and he wondered…

Tonight, as John pressed the cold end of his stethoscope to his chest, Sherlock took a deep breath and Mrs. Hudson's advice.

"John."

"Hmm?" John was distracted as he listened to Sherlock's lungs and he frowned. "You need to get off this sofa. You don't want to get pneumonia-"

"I'm sorry."

John's eyes snapped to Sherlock's and Sherlock felt a giddy thrill at the look in those eyes: hurt, surprise, affection, worry, _happiness_. He had gotten it right and now everything would be ok. Really, he should have tried this apologizing thing sooner.

John frowned and removed his stethoscope from Sherlock's chest. He tilted his head to the side and gave Sherlock a tight smile. "Sorry for what exactly?"

Sherlock paused, unsure how to proceed. He _was_ sorry and he wanted John to forgive him…but what was he sorry for? Mrs. Hudson had not said to apologize for anything _specific_ and he quickly thought of everything that lady had said he had done to John which was classified as "not good."

"For what I said?"

John sat back and seemed inclined to overlook the fact that Sherlock had made his apology more of a question.

"What else?"

Oh for god sakes, there was more. Sherlock wracked his brain. "For…lying to you?"

"Are you really sorry?"

That was easy. "_Yes_."

John cocked his head to the side and regarded Sherlock for a few seconds before grinning and reaching over to ruffle Sherlock's hair. "You're a clueless git. Good thing you have Mrs. Hudson to help you with bloody emotions. No clue how you survived before you met her."

Sherlock glared and smoothed his hair back down, not bothering to tamp down the excited beating of his heart at the easy, playful contact. "Does that mean I'm forgiven?"

John paused and stared at Sherlock, considering, before replying. "Yeah, you're forgiven." He shook his head, obviously thinking he was an idiot, and started to rise. Sherlock, relieved and equally excited, grabbed his arm and tried to pull him back down, his intentions very clear, but John shook him off and stood.

"You're not _that_ forgiven, Sherlock."

* * *

John took a deep breath and rubbed his face against his cool pillow. Night time was the only time he allowed himself to think about Sherlock and the entire mess they were now in. He snorted. The only time he _allowed_ himself to think about Sherlock- the rest of his day was a constant struggle between himself and his thoughts which remained firmly fixed on his annoying friend and the struggle between severing ties completely and rushing into the flat and throwing himself at Sherlock. Neither option was particularly appealing- although the second one had the added benefit of spectacular sex so… John shook his head and took his mind away from that one.

He had known something was wrong as soon as he had seen Sherlock, freshly showered, his eyes almost completely round and terrified, in the doorway to the sitting room. Sherlock's behavior had gone on to make John certain that something was wrong, _very wrong_, with Sherlock but he had not been able to figure out precisely what. It had only been after Sherlock's angry, cruel words in the kitchen that John had discovered, as Sherlock stood shaking in front of him in the cold, what was wrong but by then it was too late.

John had just felt numb as Sherlock confessed to loving him, and he had really only felt a brief flare of anger that Sherlock would profess to loving him _now_ when he had said such horrible things and used him. Under other circumstances, John would have been amazed, elated, jubilant, and would have easily said the words back, meaning them from the depths of his heart. Instead, all he could think about was what Sherlock had just told him in the flat and feel a deep ache in his chest.

Sherlock manipulated people. John knew that and in the back of his mind, he knew that Sherlock probably manipulated him all the time without his being aware of it. He probably manipulated John into doing the shopping, cleaning the flat, feeling sorry for him when he was bored, always taking the worst jobs on their cases, and countless other instances and John was just not clever enough to see them for what they were- but for the most part John was ok with it. That sort of manipulation was not damaging- irritating, yes, and made him roll his eyes and want to strangle Sherlock for being such an annoying dick- but not _hurtful_. Never overtly mean or cold-hearted. The way in which Sherlock had manipulated him this time had been harsh and painful, intimate in a way that his other manipulations never were. For the first time, it had been very personal, taking something that meant a lot to John- and he knew Sherlock had known how much it would have meant to John to hear that Sherlock desired him- and twisted it, used it in order to further his own ends without a thought to how John would feel.

What a fucking mess.

Everything Sherlock had said that night in the cold made sense and it explained so much of his behavior. John had known Sherlock for a while now and knew that the genius, for all his clever deductions and high intellect, was spectacularly ignorant when it came to emotions, most especially his own. Looking back (and hindsight was always 20/20) John felt that he should have known Sherlock's reactions that night had been from an inability to correctly process his emotions. He had seen Sherlock react in such a way after seeing the hound and that incident was firmly lodged in John's mind. He should have known…but he hadn't.

Sherlock had apologized, though, but it had been obvious he had not really known what he was apologizing for. He had been guessing, hoping to get it right, but as obvious as that had been, it had also been obvious that he _was_ sorry. He wanted to be forgiven, and he was trying to say the right things to achieve that. John had thought it was adorable…and very sad. What he had said about not knowing how Sherlock had survived emotionally before he met Mrs. Hudson was not entirely accurate. He knew how Sherlock had survived without someone loving and understanding in his life- and that was why Sherlock acted the way he did: unable to understand his own emotions, trying to cut himself off from feelings, and unable to realize that manipulating people one cared about was very, very not good.

It was such a Sherlock way to act that John sometimes thought that it was cruel of _him_ to hold it against the idiot consulting detective. Sort of like holding the wrongdoing of a child against them when they were not even sure what they had done that was incorrect. So yes, he forgave Sherlock. He was still hurt, though, and not ready to start…whatever Sherlock wanted to start with him. Friends with benefits again? John didn't want that, not if Sherlock really loved him…and for the first time, John allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock really did love him. As much as he was able…and that was enough for John.


	14. Chapter 14

**Wow. I cannot believe that this story gained over 300 followers. That's a record for any of my stories and I want to take this opportunity to sincerely thank each and every one of you for reading, reviewing, favoriting, following and anything else you may have done with my story. I'm just so overwhelmed by the response this fic has gained and I just...I'm so thankful to you all. :)**

**Here it is: the last chapter. This entire story has been an intense labor of love and I hope you have enjoyed the ride. After such overwhelming support, I'm in the process of writing a sequel to this story: What Might We Deduce About His Heart? It's already up so feel free to drop over there and read and review, if you feel so inclined.  
**

**Enjoy :)  
**

* * *

Mrs. Hudson looked over at the seemingly nonchalant consulting detective who had burst through her downstairs kitchen door over an hour ago, unannounced, cheeks red from the cold and wrapped in his coat and scarf. He had proceeded to say not a word but had hovered in whatever room she was cleaning, a silent presence. He simply trailed after her, looking about her flat and poking his nose into places it had not right to be, until Mrs. Hudson had finally taken pity on him. It was obvious what he was wanting but was unable to bring himself to simply _ask_ for her advice.

"How are things with John?"

Sherlock turned from his examination of her various knickknacks on the mantelpiece, and raised his eyebrows arrogantly. "Hm?"

Mrs. Hudson gave him a Look and Sherlock dropped his eyes like a scolded little boy.

"How much _time_ does someone need?" he asked in a petulant, quite voice, clasping his hands behind his back and walking about the sitting room.

"It's only been a few days-"

"It's been eleven."

"Sherlock, John is hurt-"

"_I_ _apologized_."

"That doesn't automatically wipe the hurt away, dear. Sometimes it takes more than that. Sometimes you have to _make it up_ to the person you hurt."

Sherlock looked puzzled, then his face cleared. "I could clean the kitchen." He remembered how John had gotten angry after he had wrecked it last time and the doctor always seemed to be complaining about his experiments and how unhygienic some of them were. Surely that would make John happy. John seemed to like cleaning the flat. He did it often enough.

Mrs. Hudson seemed to be hiding a smile and Sherlock's eyes narrowed, wondering what was so funny. "That would be a nice start, though perhaps you could do something a bit more…personal."

Sherlock made a disgusted noise and glared up at the ceiling, the very picture of a put-upon individual. "I suppose that means _romance_ and all that word entails."

"It's up to you, dear. If you don't think John is worth it…" Mrs. Hudson trailed off significantly and Sherlock's head whipped around to stare at her.

"Of course he is." He huffed, and bit his lips, indecision written across his face. "What would I have to do?"

* * *

Sherlock felt nauseous as he glanced up from his microscope and over to John who was sitting in his armchair, calmly reading the newspaper. After he had spoken to Mrs. Hudson and that remarkably bright woman had given him a plan, Sherlock had ran upstairs to research and finalize in the privacy of his room. Once he had planned everything, he had anxiously waited for John to return home, running through various scenarios in his head of what could go wrong and how he could salvage his plan. This exercise had worked in calming him down, however, when the door had banged downstairs, signaling John's arrival, Sherlock had again felt he would throw up from nerves. He had pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, only managing a weak nod at John who, taking in Sherlock's waxy pallor and clammy skin, had worriedly asked if Sherlock were coming down with something again.

It had now been four hours since John had returned and Sherlock was- unbelievably- _still_ trying to work up his nerve.

This was absurd.

Growling angrily, Sherlock pushed away from the table and strode into the sitting room. He stood in front of John and cleared his throat.

John did not lower his paper.

Sherlock nervously straightened his jacket and cleared his throat again.

Still no response.

He opened his mouth but the words stuck in his throat and felt as if they were choking him. He breathed in and out, wiped his disgustingly sweaty palms on his trousers, squinched his eyes closed, and blurted it out.

"Iwouldliketoaskyouonadate."

John dropped the top of his newspaper and frowned up at him in shock. "_What_?"

He watched in disbelief as Sherlock shifted from foot to foot, trying to straighten his face into indifferent lines and failing miserably. John could see his uncertainty and nervousness peeking out from behind his usually cold mask. Despite himself, he was enchanted.

"A date, John. I am asking you on a date."

"You're asking me on a date?"

"Yes. That's what I just…_Ahem_. A _date_ is where two people go out together and have fun."

"I know what a date is. You're asking _me_ on a _date_?"

"Romantically." Sherlock clarified, just in case John had missed that important aspect. The whole evening would be pointless if he did.

John looked up at him, giving Sherlock his best "I'm- trying-to-figure-out-what-you're-doing-because-I-know-you're-up-to-something-more-than-what-you're-telling-me" face. Sherlock tamped down his impatience and indignation at John's assumption and schooled his face into looking politely inquiring with just a touch of hope. He had seen men adopt a similar expression on those stupid comedic romances John had made him watch. At the time, he hadn't thought the movies were useful, seemingly full of drivel and poor acting skills, but now he wished he had paid more attention. There might have been something useful…

"Right." John paused, then, "No case?"

Sherlock made a valiant effort to resist rolling his eyes. This was important. "No case." He replied and saw John open his mouth again. He rushed to cut him off. "No experiment either."

John was still staring up at him and Sherlock tried to read his face to deduce what he would say. He had thought that John would say yes because he had given him adequate _space_ and _time_. John seemed to enjoy rejecting him the first time he asked for something, though, so-

"What did you have in mind?"

Sherlock let out a shaky breath as relief seeped through his veins and he managed a confident smile. "I have done extensive research about first dates."

John did not look reassured.

* * *

As it turned out, there were no body parts, no adrenaline rush, no death threats, and no dangerous chases after armed criminals. John had been half-expecting their "first date" to be alarming and leave one or the other injured and in the hospital. As it was, the date started out to be…normal. Surprisingly normal. It was obvious to John that Sherlock had indeed done research about dates because he seemed to be following rote instructions, no matter how doubtful he obviously found the advice.

He started trying to hold doors open for John right off. First the door to the flat (John had thought it odd but dismissed it), then the downstairs door (John began to suspect…), and finally the door to the cab. John had gotten fed up.

"Sherlock. Stop. We're both men, I don't need you holding my doors open for me."

Sherlock had frowned and looked from John to the cab. "It said on the internet that-"

"I don't blood care what it said. I don't want you holding doors open for me. You never did before and it doesn't need to change just because it's a date."

"How will we know who opens the doors?" Sherlock pointed out, getting a bit irritated that he had done something wrong.

John valiantly managed not to laugh. "I guess whoever gets there first."

They took the cab to one of their favorite restaurants- John made a point of rushing forward to grab the door and haul it open for Sherlock, who knew he was being teased and glared- and promptly had a fight over Sherlock's decision not to eat.

"When was the last time you ate?" John demanded, frowning.

"You would know, John." Sherlock said in a breathily angry voice, picking up his menu again and scanning the options. He finally ordered _something_ just to keep John from continuing to glare at him. He did not think this was supposed to happen during a successful date.

They made it through the rest of dinner normally enough, chatting and laughing together as usual. Sherlock was beginning to suspect that there was not much difference from this "date" and all the other times that he and John went out together. He wondered if he were doing something wrong because surely there was supposed to be some sort of difference but John was seeming to enjoy the evening, which had been Sherlock's goal, so at least he was doing something right.

When they finished dinner, Sherlock hailed another cab, refusing to tell John where they were going next and enjoying his look of surprise when they pulled up at the movie theater.

John grinned up at the marquee as they joined the queue for tickets. Dinner and a movie, oddly, astoundingly normal.

"Skyfall?"

Sherlock nodded, obviously proud of himself. "I knew you liked James Bond."

"You do too, you git." John said, grinning madly up at Sherlock, excited to see the film. "As I remember, you-"

"I was _forced_ against my will to watch those movies, John." Sherlock said paying for their tickets and thrusting John's at him while John smirked knowingly.

"Only at first. You were _engrossed_ after the first one-"

"I was merely interested in deducing if they had made as many mistakes in the second film as the first." Sherlock said coolly, steering them into the correct theater and scanning for available seats. Good lord, this movie was obviously popular. Sherlock grimaced at the crowd but successfully managed to find two seats that were not _directly_ near other moviegoers.

"You were merely interested in deducing how great a movie it was. Be honest." John said, plopping down in his seat and grinning as Sherlock sank down beside him just as the lights dimmed and the previews began playing.

Sherlock opened his mouth-

"Or were you looking at Daniel Craig? Got a thing for blondes?"

Sherlock actually blushed- John felt himself fall a little more in love with him- and Sherlock had again opened his mouth to reply, no doubt scathingly, when his mobile rang.

He glanced at the screen and rolled his eyes before answering. "Lestrade. What?"

John glanced out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock listened to Lestrade speak at length.

"Where?"

A case then. John started pulling his coat back on, preparing to leave-

"I can't come. I'm on a date."

"_Sssh_!"

John glanced over his shoulder at the indignant shusher and then back at Sherlock who was frowning angrily.

"Sherlock-"

"_With John_, of course."

Sherlock listened to whatever Lestrade said and his spine straightened in outrage. "It's not for a case!" he almost shouted at his mobile. A few more people joined in shushing them and this time Sherlock turned around to glare at everyone in general.

"This is not important, Lestrade, compared to my date with John." Sherlock hissed into his mobile as John watched with a half-smile. "If you feel so inclined you may want to try and be competent for once in your life so I can continue my date and get off with John."

He stabbed at his phone to end the call and then stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched, while John reeled from shock and tried not to laugh.

He chewed his lip and debated with himself. If he were honest, this whole "date" had been bizarre and he really sort of hope he never had to do it again. This was not them- not that there was a "_them"_…at least not yet, and it just felt forced. If John had to assume anything about their relationship, he would have thought that he and Sherlock were the sort of couple that would bond over a crime scene and a solved case instead of hearts and roses, dinner and a movie. And to be honest, John was really fine with that. Not that a movie or dinner would be amiss every once in a while but…it really wasn't needed.

He looked over at Sherlock who was staring vacantly at the screen. He was holding up stoically, but John could tell he was bored and on edge and, to be honest, knowing there was a case waiting for them, he felt the same.

Well, that simplified matters.

He leaned over, pressing himself against Sherlock's side, and breathed in his ear. "_Sherlock_. Let's go to the crime scene." John wondered if it were his words or the action that caused Sherlock to shiver and his eyes to go half-lidded but it didn't matter. He was fascinated anyway.

Sherlock turned to look at him in the dark. "Our date-"

"To be honest, Sherlock, this is all really sweet and everything but…we're more the couple to bond over starlight and crime scenes, not dinner and a movie."

There was another insistent "_ssssh_!" from behind them that they both ignored. Sherlock looked at him, his eyes drifting down to John's lips then back up to meet his eyes, obviously deducing the truth to John's words. Then he smiled, his entire face lighting up and John grinned back at him.

"Let's go."

* * *

It was well past midnight before they stumbled out of the cab at Baker Street. John's suit was in tatters and holes and when he had complained about this to Sherlock, Sherlock's only response had been "At least it was cheap."

John was currently not speaking to Sherlock.

They were both exhausted, ready to go to bed, and John's eyes kept closing and were slow to open again. The adrenaline rush had worn off almost an hour ago as they were having a celebratory dinner. Now all John was thinking of, as he swayed on his feet, was why Sherlock was taking so long to open the bloody door.

Sherlock had felt his heart rate kick up as soon as the cab had pulled up to the curb and his palms had started to sweat. This was the part of the date he had been most looking forward to, and had decided to keep even though the rest of the "date" had involved decapitated heads, angry dogs, and barbed wire fences.

"John."

John was looking away down the street, his eyes unfocused and heavy, but his head snapped around at the sound of his name and he smiled up at Sherlock. The sight made Sherlock's heart start beating faster. He wondered if this would be a way to murder someone-

"Yeah?"

This was stupid. He had kissed John before, they had had sex together- but nothing Sherlock could say made his nerves stop fluttering as he stepped closer to John and saw realization flash through the shorter man's eyes. He feared John would step away, stop him, explain why this was a bad idea-but then John tilted his head and closed his eyes and Sherlock almost cried in relief.

He cupped John's cheek in his palm and gently pressed their lips together. His heart was pounding, his hands shaking, and he heard John's breathing catch. They moved together, keeping the kiss unhurried and sweet, their shared passion lying between them but not clamoring to the surface. They kissed, letting the world fall away and affirming something they shared that was still new and fragile, something that had already taken a hard knock, but was still there, and was soothed with the sweet promise of recovery and eventual healing.

When Sherlock pulled away, John's eyes opened slowly and he blinked a few times as he stared up at him.

"I love you." Sherlock murmured and watched in fascination as John's pupils dilated from just his words.

John swallowed and Sherlock thought for one dizzying minute he would say it back but nothing came out. Instead, John leaned up on his toes to press his lips to Sherlock's.

* * *

For once, it was entirely silent in the flat. John paused on the landing and glanced into the darkened sitting room where there was no sign of a mad amateur scientist attempting to blow things up or torturing his violin. He had been expecting the usually nocturnal consulting detective to be slumped on the sofa, even if he were taking a rarely deserved sleep and John checked to make sure that Sherlock's coat, scarf, and gloves were still hung up where he had left them. They were, so Sherlock was still in the flat.

John looked towards Sherlock's closed bedroom door with raised eyebrows, noting that no sliver of light shown between the door and the floor. It was the only other place Sherlock could be but he so rarely used his bedroom for sleep. He seemed inclined to eat, sleep, and think on the sofa (though not in that order) and John thought he could count the number of times Sherlock had actually slept in his bed on one hand.

Nevertheless, half expecting Sherlock to sneak up behind him in the dark and politely enquire why John was skulking around the flat at night, he tiptoed down the hall and paused in front of the wooden door. He steadied his breathing before easing the door open and slipping inside, almost jolting in surprise when he saw Sherlock's body lying underneath his sheet. Sherlock's back was to the door and, despite the lack of response from the figure on the bed at his arrival, John didn't delude himself into thinking he was sneaking into the room unnoticed. Sherlock had probably heard him come down the stairs but was pretending to sleep, waiting to see what John would do next.

John paused beside the bed, glancing around almost as if he were unable to believe he was in Sherlock's room, before lifting the covers and sliding between them. He scooted over until he could curve his body around Sherlock's, wrapping his arm around his slender middle and nuzzling his nose into the soft curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock sighed and relaxed against him, wiggling back until John was firmly spooned around him, their bodies pressed tightly together, one of Sherlock's hands holding on to the arm John had wrapped around him. John sighed contentedly. They had never done this before. They had sucked and fucked and done everything in between, but they had never done this- just a simple hold, relaxing with each other . It was good. It was _more_.

As John relaxed further and felt Sherlock's body growing lax against his own, he let his mind flick back to a few days ago when Mrs. Hudson had marched into the flat while Sherlock was out and had given John her unsolicited advice. John grinned as he remembered her words.

"You know Sherlock's special, I don't have to tell you that. I won't tell you whether or not you should forgive him, John, or stay with him. I will say, if you can honestly imagine your life without Sherlock, and imagine it happy and not missing anything at all, and you really feel that you cannot forgive him and move past this…then leave him. It would be kinder for the both of you. If you _can't_ imagine that though…you have your answer."

Life without Sherlock? To quote a certain genius John knew: Dull. He grinned and squeezed Sherlock's body to his own.

"I love you too." He whispered and felt Sherlock stiffen in his arms before he was twisting around and pressing John back against the mattress, lips frantically pressing against John's and long fingers roaming everywhere. John clutched Sherlock's thin body to him before scrabbling at his shirt, rucking it up and finally pulling it over Sherlock's head. He skimmed his hands down his back and Sherlock melted against him, humming in his chest.

They continued to kiss, their movements frantic and hurried. It was the work of mere moments for Sherlock to divest John of his pajamas and John was determinedly working on Sherlock's bottoms when Sherlock paused and rested his forehead against John's, stilling his movements and breathing deeply.

"I do love you, John." He whispered and John smirked beneath him.

"You better, you daft git."

"I do, John. I love everything about you. It's so troublesome and _unexpected_ and it makes me crazy." Sherlock buried his face in John's neck and began kissing, sucking, and John arched into the sensation. He knew this wouldn't last long, soon Sherlock would be pulling back and demanding penetration (which John was only too happy to participate in), but he allowed himself to enjoy this for a few seconds, a lazy moan coming out of his mouth as Sherlock bit at his collarbone.

"I've been doing research." Sherlock said and John's mind was already slightly fuzzy from lust because he only smiled and hummed, closing his eyes.

His eyes popped open and his attention sharpened when Sherlock licked a line from his navel to his neck, causing John to arch involuntarily.

"Extensive research."

"Wh-what about?" John asked, watching as Sherlock hovered above him on hands and knees, suddenly feeling very exposed and loving it.

Sherlock smirked and leaned closer to John. "Foreplay." He whispered, his tongue flicking against John's ear, causing him to gasp and grip Sherlock to him.

"Really?" John had to clear his throat before he could get anymore words out because suddenly his mind was assaulted with all the many, _wonderful_ things Sherlock could have read on the internet about foreplay. "And what did you learn?"

"John Watson, are you chatting me up?"

* * *

John should have known that he wouldn't have to teach _Sherlock Holmes_ any fucking thing. The man had done _research_- and John was keen to learn what exactly that research had entailed- but Sherlock had not been lying when he said it was extensive. John liked to think that he knew a lot about human anatomy, he was a doctor, after all, and he also liked to think he was a skilled lover, because he had experience. Apparently, all that paled in comparison to the _research_ of Sherlock Holmes.

John didn't think there was an inch of his body that Sherlock hadn't tasted at some point with his tongue. He was not complaining (though he had blushed quite a few times when Sherlock showed just how _extensive_ his research had been). John tried to give as good as he got but Sherlock seemed to be making it his mission to make John lose control and prove, apparently, that_ Sherlock Holmes knew how to do fucking foreplay._

He succeeded because by the time Sherlock sank down on John's length, gripping his hands to steady himself, John was a blathering, lust-crazed idiot. He had to keep reminding himself to remain still and let Sherlock have time to relax. He bit his lip and watched as Sherlock breathed slowly in and out, taking more of his length as he sank further down.

"Oh, god, John," Sherlock rumbled and rolled his hips, adjusting to the sensation, throwing his head back and groaning. John closed his eyes and let him, rubbing Sherlock's thighs, forcing his own hips to be still, until Sherlock shakily rose up and then slowly sank back down.

"John."

John opened his eyes and looked up at Sherlock who gave him a very shaky smile as he began to rise up and down more quickly. His mouth fell open in a silent scream and John's hips jerked, wanting to start thrusting but waiting until Sherlock was ready, waiting to be told-

"Are you going to lay there the entire time and let me do all the work?"

John laughed hoarsely and thrust up, causing Sherlock's eyes to slam closed but he quickly jerked them open again.

"You're so bloody bossy." John said in mock anger, pulling Sherlock down and kissing him between words. "How is it…even with my…cock up your arse…you're telling me what to do?"

Sherlock's hands were to either side of John's head, and their noses bumped as they laughed. John squirmed when this did odd and pleasurable things where they were connected and Sherlock moaned deep in his chest between laughs.

"This….feels weird." He gasped, moving his hips restlessly and John grinned.

"You've never…laughed during…sex…before?"

"Why would I?"

That made John's heart hurt. He pulled Sherlock in for another kiss and vowed to make sure Sherlock laughed during sex every time. Even if he were laughing at John, just so long as he _laughed_. John continued to thrust lazily and Sherlock moaned into his mouth before breaking their kiss and steadying himself on John's chest so he could raise himself up and down in tandem with John's thrusts.

Their eyes locked and John sped up his thrusts, seeing desperation and lust in Sherlock's eyes. The extended and amazing foreplay had taken them both to the edge and John knew they were both close again. He reached down and took Sherlock's cock in his hand, pumping it in time with his thrusts. Sherlock arched above him, maintaining eye contact the entire time and John wanted to close his own eyes. It was too intense, watching the play of emotions across Sherlock's face, looking into those deep blue eyes, as Sherlock got closer and closer to orgasm. His eyes darkened, boring into John's, and went half-lidded as he came, shuddering and gripping John's arms tightly.

"_Oh, fuck_," John whispered desperately, closing his eyes, feeling himself teetering on the edge of his own orgasm.

"Look at me." Sherlock moaned and John tried, he really did, as he gave a few more rough thrusts and then exploded in a blissful orgasm. It was impossible to keep his eyes open the entire time, though, and they slammed shut without his will. Sherlock swooped down and kissed him, maintaining their connection and John clutched him desperately, in that instant not wanting to ever let him go.

When John's hips finally stilled, Sherlock collapsed gracelessly atop him, forcing the air from John's lungs in a gruff _whuff_. John stroked his sweaty back and breathed deeply, as his heart rate slowly returned to normal and his body floated dreamily in post-orgasmic haze.

"_That_…gave a whole new definition…to the term…eye fucking." John panted. Sherlock raised his head and the moment their eyes connected again, Sherlock laughed, a low, delighted rumble, and John joined in, laughter bubbling up from pure happiness. He rolled Sherlock to the side when he was unable to breathe from laughing and being crushed by the crazy genius.

John expected him to leave. Sherlock didn't seem like the cuddling sort and it seemed like something John would probably have to badger him about, as he had done with the foreplay. He was pleasantly surprised, then, when Sherlock sprawled his upper half across John, laying his head on his chest, and sighed before closing his eyes and relaxing against him. John trailed his hand down Sherlock's back, enjoying the sensation, allowing himself to relax and tentatively think: Mine, this is mine. This irrational, crazy, fantastic man _loves_ me, and he's _mine_. It was still uncertain, hesitant, almost disbelieving and John knew he would feel this way for a while. It just seemed too unrealistic that Sherlock loved him. With just as much certainty, though, he also knew that Sherlock would prove that he loved him in hundreds of little different ways until one day, John would never doubt it.

John drifted off to sleep with a stupid grin on his face, his arms wrapped around Sherlock, and Sherlock feigned sleep so he could remain next to John and begin planning their future together. He was sure John would approve…once he convinced him.

And convincing him would be half the fun.


End file.
